Through a long dark night to the morning
by Artura
Summary: This is Faramir's story, from the death of Boromir to his betrothal to Eowyn and the return of the king. An exploration of grief and recovery during great changes in life. Gap-filler, strictly book-verse. Rating for details of wounds and their treatment, and discussion of death and the treatment of the dead.
1. My brother is gone

The glimmering light faded downstream until it was lost from view. Only then did the man in the water turn away from the dark stream and start to wade slowly towards the bank. His foot caught on the stems of reeds which had fallen to the river-bed and he stumbled, but he recovered himself and continued silently into shallower water. Soon he was able to climb onto the embankment where he sat on a plank which formed a seat in a hollow near the top, and again he looked out across the river. All was still.

The watchman found he was trembling. Perhaps it was from cold after being in the water; he had no idea how long he had been there but certainly he had rarely felt as cold as he did then. He tried to renew his wavering attention to concentrate on the scene before him, but what he saw in his mind's eye was much more vividly present.  
He looked with care at each part of the land that he was charged to watch, that order and routine might calm his agitation; but while he managed to control his body, he had less success in mastering his thoughts. He wanted to weep, and to cry aloud, but he held back every sound or tear; for his foremost duty was as watcher and eyes full of tears do not see clearly, while no man keeping watch will see things that are intended to be hidden unless he is silent. And all through what remained of the night he held to his duty and watched, while his heart overflowed with grief.

As the stars faded and the light of the new day spread over the sky from behind the dark eastern mountains, the watch was taken over by more men, and those who had been on duty during the night came together a little way from the river bank.

"Does anyone have anything to report from his watch?" asked the captain, "for soon I will ride for the city. I have an errand to the steward which will not wait."

No-one gave report of having seen anything untoward; and they walked back across the marshy ground with long strides. The captain seemed to be in great haste and he set a fast pace to the stables at the nearby garrison while his guards hurried behind him. He walked into the stable yard calling for the harness for his horse and saddled the creature after a much briefer greeting than was usual. Within a very few minutes they set off, riding fast westwards towards the great stone city that could be seen in the distance, its many towers pink in morning light reflected by the high snowy mountains above.

In due course they had to slow as they came to the city gate; and it was with uncharacteristic impatience that the captain urged his horse upwards to the sixth circle. His waves of acknowledgement to those who called his name as he rode through the city were forced, although those receiving them did not know it; able to be given only through harsh self-discipline and long habit.

The captain dismounted quickly when he came to the stables and gave the reins to a boy with a brief word to take care of the horse; then he continued alone to the seventh level and the citadel while his guards stayed behind at the stables at his command. They looked after him in confusion and concern.  
"Damrod," said one, "have you any idea what is wrong with the Captain?"  
"None whatever; but I do not think I have ever seen his face look thus in all the years I have known him. And I wonder why he has been in the river," said the other.  
"Perhaps he saw something in the night," said the first. "I suppose we will come to know in a while. But let us go and breakfast while we can. It may be that there will be much to do later on." They set off towards their mess.

* * *

The Lord Steward of Gondor sat at his desk, pen in hand, reading through draft orders for the rationing of food in the event of siege. He picked up another paper, a report of the grain stocks stored in the city, and started to check the calculations of how long they could survive if the proposed rations were allowed.

His concentration was disturbed by the sound of familiar but hurried footfalls in the corridor outside. _He must have ridden fast to be back already; what might be the cause of such haste?_ wondered Denethor with disquiet, as a tap sounded on the door.  
"Come, my son," he called, but he kept his eyes still fixed on the paper in front of him and held up his left hand for silence as he finished the calculations and signed the order. He laid down his pen, and raised his eyes to Faramir who now stood before him. His boots and clothes were damp and muddy, but it was his face that held Denethor's attention and Faramir's customary greeting received cursory reply. _I saw that expression when I sat him on my lap, put my arms around him, and told him that we had lost his mother, _thought Denethor with dread, but all he said was:  
"What tidings do you bring from your watch?"  
"My father, it seems that the ill-omen is fulfilled and the fears it inspired are realised. I have seen a very strange thing in the night, and my heart tells me that Boromir is dead."  
All colour left Denethor's face. Finally he spoke:  
"We will break our fast, and you will tell me what you have seen," he said quietly. He rose and crossed the room to where three chairs sat near a low table and a brazier. He rang a bell for the servant who was commanded to bring wine and cakes. Denethor sat, waving Faramir to his usual chair where he sat with downcast eyes.  
"Speak," commanded Denethor, after their repast had been brought.

In a low, clear voice Faramir related what had befallen him during his watch of the Anduin. "I know not whether I saw, or it merely seemed that I saw," he ended. "I know not how it could have happened in truth, but it was no dream, for there has been no waking; and I know in my heart that my brother is dead." He bowed his head.

Denethor laid a hand on his son's shoulder, considering his words. _Does he see truly? My heart would say that he does, but I will not abandon hope for a vision seen once only.  
O Boromir, my Boromir! Come home to me!  
_  
Faramir looked up, his eyes bright with tears, and spoke again:  
"How can I possibly serve you in his place?"

Denethor did not answer, except with a caress. Fear and longing for his beloved, long-absent son filled Denethor's heart, as Faramir knelt and laid his head in his father's lap. The tears he had suppressed during the night flowed now freely, into his father's cloak. _He mourns, because he believes he knows,_ thought Denethor, leaning his head back against his chair with a heavy sigh, his arm resting absently across Faramir's heaving shoulders. _ May his vision prove false! O Boromir, return to me! Confound all ill-omen, my great, powerful son, my hope! Return with your smiles and laughter, and bring hope with you, and joy at your home-coming!_ Tears pricked in Denethor's eyes, but he held them back. _I do not need to weep for my Boromir yet. I will not mourn one for whose return I look still in hope._ The sun escaped from behind a cloud and shone, warm and pleasant, through the window onto them, but neither noticed, rapt in the events of the night.

Faramir moaned aloud, and Denethor stroked his hair. "No, my son. We do not need to bewail him yet. Maybe he will return, even now. We will not lose all hope because of a vision which may be but an unhappy echo of some future doom. Boromir may yet return, riding home in the morning," he said.  
"My father, if it is true, how can it be borne? How long can Gondor stand, bereft of him?" asked Faramir in reply.  
"In me, Faramir, Gondor will stand for as long as she is able, and if she is bereft of him, then you will help me," answered Denethor. "As for how his loss might be borne, in that I cannot advise you. But we know not yet that your vision is true.  
"Saw you anything else of import during your watches?"  
"No, my father," said Faramir, rising to his feet. He wiped away his tears with the heel of his hand and took several deep breaths. The handkerchief he pulled out was very wet; but he blew his nose anyway and turned back to his father, stuffing the handkerchief back into his pocket.  
"Then you will go to your rest, and I return to my tasks of the day," said Denethor. "When you have slept, come to me. There is much to do, for we must be in complete readiness. Even if the hour is as yet unknown, assault is building against us and it must find us fully prepared."

Faramir bowed; and took his leave.

* * *

The rooms were bright in the winter sun and warm, with a fire burning well as the door opened and Faramir entered slowly. He looked round the room uncertainly, although it was very familiar to him, then he crossed to where there were chairs close by a lit brazier and sat, still trembling with cold and grief.  
_How is it that the world continues, yet nowhere in it is my brother? How is it that your chair still sits opposite me, but never again will it bear your weight?  
Boromir, where are you? Whither have you gone? O Boromir, I have seen the marks on your body, and you are slain, are you not? What has befallen you, my brother, that you are dead? Our father does not believe it, but I know full well that you are indeed taken from us. Would that it were not so! O Boromir!  
_His eyes rested for a long time on the empty chair opposite him, then settled absently on the fire, watching the dancing flames and the fuel which crunched intermittently, collapsing as it burned. He seemed lost in grief, not heeding the gradual drying of his damp clothes in the warmth of the fire. Still he sat motionless, and the fire burned down until it threatened to go out. At last he roused himself and leaned forward to put more fuel on the dying fire, poking it back into life.

Then Faramir went to the bedchamber, looking for a physical trace of his brother. The sheets were clean, prepared for Boromir's return, like the brazier lit every day at Faramir's command that all should be kept in readiness. He opened a wardrobe, full of clothes, and took out one of his brother's favourite tunics, left behind as unsuitable for such a journey in the wild. He buried his face in the soft white wool and inhaled deeply, trying to catch a faint reminder of his brother's smell. He wrapped his arms tightly round the tunic.  
"Boromir," he said aloud, "I would sleep in your bed, if I may, for my comfort, as I did as a boy when my heart was full of sorrow and you consoled me in the night. I am no longer a boy, and our eyes meet now at the same level, but again my heart grieves, for it seems now that I have lost you, not just for a quest, but for all the rest of my days."

He lay down on the bed. As a boy, he had always asked permission but had never needed to wait for the reply, confident of his brother's welcome, receiving always a sleepy groan, a kiss and a warm embrace. But the bed was cold; no embrace awaited him; and in place of his brother's warm and solid flesh he had only an empty tunic in his arms. He wrapped himself and his brother's tunic in the bed-clothes, and closed his eyes. _I have seen too much, too many men slain,_ he thought. _I know too much of how men die._ In his mind's eye he saw Boromir in the midst of a desperate fight, joy of battle having turned to grim realisation of impending defeat. _What can a swordsman do against many archers? _he asked himself hopelessly, remembering the wounds he had seen on his brother's body. He saw his brother staggering, struck by merciless shafts, the cruel arrows slicing through precious flesh on their mission of destruction, and then he saw him as he fell, with many wounds, his blood staining his garments and his life fading away.

Then sorrow overwhelmed him.

His breast and his arms ached with longing for his brother. He wanted to have been able to have shielded him, to have protected him, to have saved him, or if that had not been possible then at least to have comforted him as he died, and then allowed his love its last expression, kissing the dead face, washing it with his tears, clasping his brother's body to his breast, cradling him, caressing him, rocking him, crying aloud in mourning.  
_I would have taken those arrows gladly if thereby you could have been saved, but I was not there!  
O my beloved brother! Boromir! Did you have any to comfort you as you lay dying? Was there any there who loved you? Your spirit left its mark as it departed, and left your face the most beautiful I have ever known it, but did you know any comfort in your last agony? And was there any who noted the passing of Denethor's son? One at least loved you enough to tend you in death, but would that it had been your kin!  
So near! So near to home, so near to safe return, yet you died. Not near enough for me to help, not near enough even for me to array in final splendour.  
Where are you now, my brother? Have I seen your body lying dead, borne down to the sea, or was it but a vision of you in death that I saw? So beautiful that I know you died doing some good thing, but how I long to know what was in your heart and your thoughts in your last hours and days!  
O Boromir, my brother, you have been taken from me, torn from my heart by the vicious, piercing darts which have killed you, my brother! With what anger would I have withdrawn and cast away those hated arrows that have slain my brother, Boromir, Boromir whom I loved!  
Your final, urgent calls for aid at need fell just within my hearing, but beyond my reach. But where now is your horn, my brother?_  
_O Boromir! Yes, the elder, and the hardier, but why did you take the quest in my place? It should have been me! When you left I cared not which one of us went so long as the quest was fulfilled, but how clearly and bitterly I see now that the wrong choice was made. You are needed here! How can I replace you, for father, for Gondor, as heir? It is a second son that is expendable, not the firstborn! You were of too great a value to risk in the wilds of the North. Why did you ask to take my place? If the risk is too great for you to let me run it, it is too great for you to run it. One of us had to go, but why you? Must I say now: Boromir was my brother? I need you still!  
_ He lay in his brother's bed in inconsolable grief, but weariness overcame him and sleep took him.

He woke in the middle of the day, but not well-rested. His eyes lighted on his brother's tunic, under his hand and his cheek. He lay still for a little, tears pooling in his eyes at the renewed realisation that he would never again see his brother wearing that tunic, or any other. Then he wiped his eyes and sat up with a sigh, and smoothed and folded the tunic, kissing it gently before returning it to the wardrobe. He looked desolately around the rooms, tidy and clean with a bright fire, always ready against the return of one who now would never return. His eye lighted again on the brazier; and he did not put any more fuel on the fire. _It serves no purpose now_, he thought. _All that burns on that fire is my hope. Boromir is beyond needing warmth, and the cold in my heart cannot be warmed by fire here. _He turned to leave for his own rooms, to wash and change his clothes before seeking out his father.

Faramir left his rooms, and walked steadily along the passages through which, many times in the past, he had run with his brother laughing and playing. As he came nearer to rooms of state he quickened his pace, alarmed. He could hear, faintly at first, wails and cries rising around him, the rituals of mourning._ For whom? _he wondered._ Father said not for Boromir. Can it be for my father? Surely they would have wakened me if he had been taken ill? But did anyone know where I was?_ His stride lengthened further.

Outside the door to the hall, through which the sounds of mourning were coming, he paused so that he could enter quietly. He passed through the door; and with a flash of relief saw his father sitting in his high black chair as usual, but his head was bowed and he was weeping, his hand resting on something in his lap. He traversed the length of the hall, knelt at Denethor's feet and laid his hands on his father's knee.  
"My father, what is it that has happened?" said Faramir urgently.  
Denethor looked at him, his face a mask of woe. Wordlessly, he lifted a fold of his cloak and showed the horn of the eldest son, cloven in two. Faramir cried out in horror. _Here is the one thing that was missing from his boat. I heard its last calls, but I could give Boromir no help in his last need. And my poor brother will never return._ He sat on the step below his father's chair, laid his head in his hands, and wept.

Gradually the news spread through the city, and it seemed that all, as they heard the news, wept and bewailed the steward's elder son. Only the guards on duty stood silent and watching at their posts, but the embroidered tunics covering mail-clad breasts received tears which dripped from beneath many a mithril helm. And in the centre of the citadel Denethor and Faramir mourned for one whom they had loved with very great love.

There could be no funeral. The next day Faramir left for Ithilien, as if nothing had changed since the making of the plans. All things readied, Faramir came before Denethor to receive his blessing. His father was a little colder than was his wont, his eyes a slightly harder, and his kiss less affectionate. _He has the wrong son before him,_ thought Faramir bleakly.


	2. On his return from Ithilien

Four horsemen neared the city as dusk was approaching. The colours were fading around them but the city stood out more clearly, shining in the darkness as the first lamps were lit. They cantered as fast as their horses could manage after the long ride, straight towards the gate, glad to be approaching home and rest.

Faramir allowed himself to relax a little. There were no signs of any foe in the vicinity of his city, and the townlands through which they had been riding with all possible haste were empty. The silence was eerie, as if the land was waiting with bated breath. Farms and homesteads were empty; there were no sounds of men or livestock anywhere. The cows which should have been lowing at milking time were gone, and not a man had they seen all day working his fields.  
_  
Evidently my father has ordered the evacuation,_ thought Faramir, _so he too knows of the impending attack. But I have arrived in time; the enemy's stroke has not yet fallen upon us and his army is not yet in sight._  
_  
It will be good to be home. My father will want my report; and then perhaps I may rest in my own bed for a little while, before the storm breaks upon us._

_Have any of Frodo's company arrived in Minas Tirith as he predicted? Shall I come home to find one has come claiming the kingship? If he is not of the line of Anarion, I doubt if we will yield to him, much as it would be a joy beyond imagining to have the true king return; and in this war we will need all the help we can get._

_Will we stand? Only time will tell, but we are not strong; and now we are weaker than ever. O Boromir, now more than ever do we need you! I will do my utmost, but never shall I make the Captain-General that you were._

_I wonder where Frodo is, if he still is. All our slender hopes must rest in him. If he fails we will be blown away like chaff on the wind. Even if, against hope, he succeeds in his quest it may well be that we will not stand long enough to know it._  
_We have not the strength to withstand the might of Mordor and this attack, long planned, to his own timing, will be prepared with all his cunning. But my father will have called Rohan; and if they answer our call, maybe it will be enough._

_It will be good to see my father again. His love is one of few comforts left, in a world where Boromir is no more. But how will my father be? Has he heard anything more yet of what befell Boromir, I wonder? And do I tell him what I have learned of Boromir's latest hours? If he comes to know of my brother's shameful deeds his sorrow will be boundless! To know that Boromir died with his heart given over to evil would be even worse for his father than it is already for his brother._

_Can I hide from him what I have discovered? It will not be easily done; but from this grief at least, I will try to shield him._

They rode on, the horses running swiftly and steadily homewards.

_O my beautiful city, jewel in the crown of my beloved land! _he thought with reverent love, as they gradually drew nearer.  
_Would that you could be at peace! But most gladly do I offer my service in the defence of one so fair. And now we prepare for yet greater war. Shall any man ever again see you at peace? Shall you ever again be known as Minas Anor, not Minas Tirith?  
_  
Now they were riding along the turf-covered bridleway by the side of the Great West Road. Faramir stared intently at the way ahead; around the road it seemed darker and he felt disquiet, as if there was an impending threat that he could not quite identify._  
_  
Then he picked out three black, winged shapes in the sky. _What are those? _he wondered uneasily. _They look too big to be birds. I see no fire; but could they be dragons?_ he thought with dread. He shuddered._ And they are between us and the city, as well. But there is no shelter except behind the walls of our home; and the sooner we are there, the better._

He urged on his horse to greater speed.

The black shapes wheeled in the sky and descended slowly towards the horsemen. Then one gave a shriek so horrible that one of the men on horseback cried out. _Osgiliath! _thought Faramir, in sudden horror. _When Boromir and I fought at Osgiliath last summer we heard that cry! They must be the Nazgûl; but they were not in the air then. And they are attacking us! The city much be watched; I must tell my father about it. _

He glanced behind, but all his men were still in the saddle and he turned his attention back to the way that lay before them.

There was another cry from overhead as the Nazgûl swooped down on the riders.

Briefly, all thought ceased. Fear approaching panic welled up in him; but he fought to overcome it and deliberately slowed his breathing.

"Ride for the city! Let nothing stop you! Ride!" he cried, his voice audible even over the tumult. His hands shook as he urged his horse on to go even faster.  
_  
Your eyes will stay open, _he commanded himself sternly. _If you can't see where you are going the steward and his city will watch the edifying spectacle of his son landing headfirst in a ditch.  
_  
He almost laughed at the thought, and the humour steadied him, until they came at him again and he crouched down on his horse's neck, focussing only on the city, keeping his eyes trained on his destination as the party streaked towards it.  
_  
I think it would be good if they had the gate already open for us, today, _he averred to himself. _And Shadows sent by the Nameless land will not silence Gondor through fear; not today. _He lifted to his lips the silver trumpet that hung at his waist and gave a long musical call. He managed to keep the notes steady; and they rang out clearly and loudly, defying the darkness surrounding them.

The Nazgûl stooped on them like hawks on a flock of sparrows. One came so close Faramir could smell the stench, so foul he felt he could not breathe, that came from the awful mount and for a moment he felt stifled by air so cold it seemed to rob him of breath; then he passed it and was a little easier.

"Keep going, we're nearly there," he said, as calmly as he could, to his horse. _If you don't panic, he won't panic,_ he thought to himself. The horse needed no urging to run faster, racing in fear towards safety, and Faramir concentrated on retaining control of his terrified steed.

There was another pass overhead.

"Steady!" he said firmly, as much to himself as to his horse as they raced onwards, but there were horses' screams behind him and a man's cry. Three riderless horses bolted away from the onslaught, as he turned and saw his companions unhorsed, fallen to the ground. Only one was trying to rise. He pulled his horse round in a circle as tight as he could without stopping and dashed back towards them. The Nazgûl swung round to attack him again and he cried out as they converged on him, two from ahead, one from behind. He swept his sword out of its sheath; but tried to relegate the ring-wraiths to the level of a distraction as he directed his will towards the task of getting back to his men.  
Now two of the men were up, but Faramir was under renewed attack. He started to shudder with cold, but thrust away the fear with all the effort of will that he could summon.

A light shone to the north, then lightning stabbed upwards into the sky.  
_  
I did not see the first bolt,_ he thought, perplexed, but it gave him hope; for the darkness around them lightened and although the Nazgûl cried out again their voices were full of their own fear and they rose rapidly into the sky then away.

As his assailants departed, Faramir picked out a figure in flowing white robes on a swift-moving horse coming towards them.  
_  
Saruman? _he thought. _But you have been no friend of Gondor for many a long year. Well, whoever you are, stranger, you will have my thanks.  
_  
The figure came closer, and Faramir could see the face. Then the white robes were hidden by a tattered grey cloak which the rider let fall round him. He stared in astonishment and an expression of wonder and amazement spread over his face.

"Mithrandir!" he called loudly as the figure approached, with relief sounding clearly in his voice. "Well met, my friend!"

"You have my thanks," he continued unsteadily, with a shaky bow. "Your rescue was most timely."

Gandalf looked at him keenly, fire still flashing in his eyes. "Well met indeed! Are you well?" he asked.

"I am better now," answered Faramir, but he could make only a faint smile. His face was white; and clammy with sweat. The hand holding the bridle of his horse was trembling, and his steed was sweating and shivering in fright. He stroked his horse's neck soothingly and tried to calm his own breathing also.

All his men were on their feet now, making for him, and in the other direction there were others streaming out of the city gates to welcome and help the returning men.

"'Tis long since we have had the honour of your company, Mithrandir," continued Faramir shakily, "but as ever you come when we most have need, for the storm is upon us, it seems. Have you been to the city?"

"Yes, I came yesterday in the morning," answered Gandalf. "Let us go in and we can speak more, with your father."

"That will be good," answered Faramir. "One moment, if you please."

He turned his attention to the three men approaching him. Their frightened faces showed pale in the gloom of dusk, but all were alive. One was cradling his left arm in his right.

"Is anybody hurt?" he asked.

"I … I think my collar bone is broken, Captain," answered the man. He tried to make a rueful grimace, but he was in too much pain, and the residual effect of the fear from the Nazgûl made his face crease as if he was close to weeping.

"Then it must be relieved of the weight of that arm straight away. Hallas: put Damrod's arm in a sling and let us be off. I think we all need to get home. Baths and hot food await us, and I for one will be glad of them," said Faramir.

"Your pardon, lord," said Hallas nervously, "I lost my gear with my horse. I have no cloth to use as a sling."

Faramir dug in a saddle bag. "Have mine," he said. "Do not fret over the horses or your kit. They will return in due course, and your gear will be sent back to you."

"Faramir! Faramir!" called men fervently, coming up from the city. "Faramir!"

He turned and waved a hand in acknowledgement then looked back to his men.

"Is all done?" he asked. "Let's give them a show. You deserve it." The four men pulled themselves up and resolution replaced the shadow of fear on their faces. As Faramir gave the drill orders they formed one rank and marched proudly home with Faramir and Gandalf riding side by side behind them. The crowd surged round them, cheering as they accompanied them home.

They were in the open space behind the gate when Faramir called quietly:

"Company, halt!

"About turn!" then when all of them were facing him he added quietly:

"Stand easy. You have all done well. Those creatures inspire fear in every man and to withstand them without flight is no mean feat.

"Hador: report your and Hallas' return to Captain Belecthor of the city men-at-arms and tell him that you are to rest with no duties before one hour after dawn of the day after tomorrow. In addition, each of you is to present himself to the leeches to be passed fit for duty before returning to service.

"Hallas, I want you to escort Damrod to the Houses of Healing before you go to your mess.

"Damrod, I fear it will be rather longer before you will be fit again. You will have to amuse yourself composing tales to keep us entertained during the long nights in Henneth Annûn."

Damrod smiled. His prowess as a story-teller was well known: and much in demand during moments of peace on campaign.

"Company: Dismiss!" ordered Faramir quietly.

As the men dispersed he rode on with Gandalf, receiving the praise of the cheering crowds of men who waited to greet them as they made their way through the city. He remembered the voice of Boromir from many years ago.  
_  
"It matters more than you think, Faramir. Something to cheer gives men new hope, and they need all the hope they can get. Parades serve an important purpose. Unlike you I do enjoy them but it is not only vainglory; and you need to give the people the chance to praise you, brother, for their good if not for yours."_

He struggled to keep his head high; but his shoulders sagged as the reaction set in to the attacks of the Nazgûl; and by the time they had got to the ramp leading up to the seventh circle he found he was trembling with weariness, riding with head bowed. As they dismounted he swayed, scarcely able, it felt, to put one foot in front of another.

In the citadel he knelt before his father in greeting, and nearly fell at his feet. Denethor laid a hand on his head briefly then took his hand, raised him to his feet with a hand under his elbow and led him to a chair by a brazier, where wine and bread were brought to him. His hands shook as he dipped his bread into the wine, but gradually his strength was restored and his shivering eased a little in the warmth of the fire.

Then he started to give his report.

* * *

Left alone, Denethor slowly released his breath, contemplating the calamity which had just befallen him and his nation. His mood had softened at the sight of Faramir's obvious distress and weariness; and he had sent his son to bed with almost tender resignation, but now as he thought back to Faramir's misdeeds his anger rekindled. Had he not committed the deed, it would never have crossed his mind that Faramir would be capable of a deed of such unutterable folly.  
_  
How could that son of mine possibly have thought that allowing those Halflings to proceed into the Nameless land was the right choice? Indeed, to use the Ring would be perilous, but those Halflings had no notion of what they faced! He had seen how easily he had overcome them with only three men; and the rangers may be proficient but a party overcome by four rangers without a fight is not going to stand against the forces of the dark lord. Those who talk aloud, light fire, and lie asleep in the sunshine are not going to succeed in penetrating his land in the first place; let alone survive within its bounds. It seems they have failed to realise that the Enemy has servants of many kinds that walk by night and by day._

_In any case: is it likely that the Ring could pass so close without the lord of Barad-dûr sensing its presence? The fool! It appears that faced with two perils my son decided to choose the road that led towards the greater peril in his anxiety to escape from the lesser; and he has taken his father and all his people with him whether they will it or no. How could he sit before me and say: "I hope that I have not done ill?" By what distorted reasoning did he come to think he chose well?_

_Or was it deliberate treachery? Did he know exactly what he was doing in withholding such a mighty gift from his father?_

_The destruction of the ring is a noble aim; but he has risked all for a chance so small that any man with any wisdom however little would discount it entirely. He knows that; he saw it himself, yet still he chose that way. My son does not trust me to endure the trial; yet by his choice he gives the Ring to the Dark Lord as surely as if he had placed it on a silver platter and sent it to the Black Gate with an escort of soldiers and the compliments of Faramir, treacherous Captain of Gondor._

Words failed Denethor, even in thought, as he tried to frame a description of such folly, or perhaps of such wickedness. _It is beyond all words to describe! Yet Mithrandir approves, flattering and soothing with soft words! –_

_But for what duplicitous purpose?_

_For all his faults, Faramir is no fool, nor is he evil at heart. It can be only that he is entirely in thrall to the wizard. Faramir has ever tended towards disobedience, ever been ready to judge his lord's commands and obey only those that suit his inclination. Is it in fact that he has secretly been answering to another master; feigning the love and loyalty that is his father's due and all the while serving another entirely?_

_And what are the wizard's schemes? Has he planned this in secret, and I failed to see? He has been out-manoeuvring me for years, and I have been blind. Verily, too late do I see!_

Rage and frustration filled Denethor's heart as he saw suddenly his impotence in the face of the wizard's designs. He should have been firmer; not have indulged Faramir's requests to learn from the wizard. Perhaps he should have made more time himself to have taught his son more of the treasures in the vaults of Mindolluin which they both knew and loved so well. And he should have insisted more clearly on obedience with no space left for discretion; instead of allowing Faramir to exercise his own judgement with such ruinous consequences.  
_  
And what of recent events? Clearly Mithrandir is not dead, as the Halflings thought, but when my Boromir was in peril, he had vanished. Did the wizard murder my Boromir, betray him, too, to his death? _There was a stab of pain in his heart and Denethor, alone, allowed his grief to show on his face unchecked. _Did he design to make space for his puppet, whether wearing the title of steward or of king? See how readily he came to the rescue of Faramir when _he_ was attacked! Despite all the soft words, he showed his true intent when he spoke with contempt of my Boromir as weak; when what he meant is that he found Boromir less_ _malleable than his blind and treacherous brother. Has he been planning this for years, moulding Faramir to his will, always intending to ensure that he would be my heir while my guard was down because it was always my second son in whom he took more interest? 'Tis I who have been the fool! Far worse than any deed of Faramir's has been my error; for now I am trapped and powerless. Now the highest captain of my forces is not my captain, he is Mithrandir's captain; and the forces of Gondor are the forces of the wizard._

_And Faramir does not see any of it! He reads men's hearts so clearly: why does he not see these coils in which he is entangled to his doom and that of all our people? If the wizard wants power, it is not the good of Gondor which he seeks; and he will no doubt betray and discard the son as readily as he has the father once he has no further use for him. How the wizard must laugh at my rage and my pain!_

_And what of Faramir? Will I be able to bring him back to me, or is his love lost forever? Will I ever know him as a faithful son who loves his father? What have I done that he loves another before his father?_

The memory of their row made him clench his teeth in pain and anger, for Faramir's words, so courteous as always, had wounded him to the quick, as they had been intended to, he had no doubt; for Faramir never failed to make his meaning clear in his speech.  
_  
O treacherous and impious son, why do you betray me and thwart me at every turn?  
Alas for my Boromir! Would that it was my Boromir who stood now by my side, a support in my need, a strong staff to my defence, my son who was true to me! Alas, alas for my Boromir, my beloved son! My Boromir!_

* * *

Faramir walked slowly with unseeing eyes towards his rooms, his father's last words ringing in his ears. _Tomorrow's need will be sterner_. His mind was fogged by weariness; his heart still shadowed by the attack of riders of the air.

He opened his door, and passed within. His servant had already prepared for his arrival, and was awaiting him. Faramir managed a greeting then turned to surrender his cloak, which was put to one side as he sat in the nearest chair, by a table already laid for a meal. His servant knelt to remove Faramir's boots; and replaced them with slippers, then he rose.

"Do you wish to take the daymeal here, my lord?"

Faramir nodded and murmured assent, wondering if he would succeed in staying awake long enough for the food to arrive from the kitchens; and the man disappeared out of the room.

He poured himself a cup of wine to fend off sleep, and sipped it. He still felt cold, and heavy-hearted. He thought of Boromir, and of what he had learned of this thing, Isildur's bane; now Boromir's bane also, then of Mithrandir's words a few minutes past. _He would have stretched out his hand to this thing and taking it, he would have fallen._ "Did Mithrandir know just how truly he spoke?" he wondered aloud. His heart ached at the vision of his brother's fall, his honour destroyed by lust for glory, yet without honour, there could be no glory. Unbidden there came to his mind Boromir's face as he had occasionally seen it in battle, yet this time the ferocious, terrifying expression was directed towards the Halfling Boromir had bound himself to protect, their one hope for the destruction of the power of the dark lord. _O Boromir!_ he thought. Yet the reproaches died on his lips in the face of wordless sorrow.

But_ he died well _Mithrandir had assured them; and another image of Boromir's face came to his mind, in the elven boat; dead, but the most beautiful he had ever seen that fair, beloved face, the traces of a last smile still extant on his lips.  
_  
Boromir, what befell you? What did you do? _he wondered._Has my longing to believe that your death was not in vain caused my heart to be deceived at my last sight of you? Or dare I to hope that there is more that I do not yet know; and that you did indeed turn back from evil before you died? Mithrandir is wont to be right: but how does he know? Does he know even of your attempt to take the Ring of power?_

_O Boromir! How I long to know what was in your heart and your thoughts then! Is there any who will tell me, or who can?_

He sighed. Maybe the Halfling now in his father's service – _how had that come to pass?_ he wondered – knew more of Boromir's final hours than Faramir had yet heard. But it would have to wait. He could not send for him now.

Faramir's reverie was broken by the return of his servant bearing a tray of dishes of soup, beans, roast mutton and a baked milk pudding. He looked gratefully at the hot food. He rose and crossed to the washstand, appreciating the warm water in the basin, and the comforts of home. He wondered as he dried his hands whether the permanence around him was entirely illusory. Would he live to see the last remnant of Númenor become a hunted people in the hills, afraid to light fire for fear of discovery? He stood and turned west to stand in silence, to remember Númenor that was, and that beyond the sunken land. A thought flitted across his mind as he sat down at the table._ How soon will it be also Gondor that was? How long will we remember then?_

As he ate his servant moved about the chamber, laying out Faramir's night clothes.

"Will you take a bath after your daymeal, my lord?" he asked. Faramir looked up, and smiled.

"Yes, thank you, Beren. 'Tis good to be home."

He looked round the familiar room, savouring the brief taste of life away from the war and his eyes lighted on the door to his small bedchamber. It was firmly closed, but maintaining the necessary gap between meat and sleep would be something of a trial that day. He carried his final cup of wine to his usual chair by the fire, and took down a book, _Of Osgiliath_, a recent gift from his father. He touched the first leaf, with its inscription '_To my son Faramir…'_  
_  
For how much longer will I remain so? _His mind reached back to a time ten years earlier when he had been recalled to witness the death of a traitor. He remembered the ritual words of condemnation from the steward, then the man's captain, then the head of the man's family, then the man's father. The execution followed; and then came the pyre outside the city with ashes scattered to the four winds that there should be no trace of the man and no soil nor stone of Gondor should have to endure the touch of the accursed bones. Finally the turves cut out to make the place of burning were replaced once the ground was cooled, that no trace of the traitor should remain, no memory even of his death be preserved.

Faramir's mind returned to his earlier report to his father, which had turned into the worst row he could ever remember.  
He recalled his shock at seeing the anger in his father's eyes, and his realisation that his father's will would have been not to release Frodo, not to have regarded him as a friend of Gondor_. How could we have this thing here? It has already destroyed Boromir. Do we keep it and wait until it destroys us all?_ He had tried not to reveal his new-found knowledge of his brother's ignominy, in an attempt to keep further pain from his father's wounded heart. _Yet you, father, would that Boromir had succeeded in his mad desire._

_I learned to understand honour from you, my father. You told me it was written in every man's heart, if he would but listen. How is it that you now say I should have gone against all that you have ever taught me? Mithrandir gives good counsel, but it is you whom I love, second to none. How can I not love you? You have made me that which I am. Is that so very displeasing to you, father, that you would have me dead in his place? Gladly would I have taken the errand, to save him, but he would not; you would not. Yet now that it comes to it, still it grieves me to know that I stand in your mind's eye by my brother's dead body, and you would exchange our places and mourn not. Is my betrayal so complete, so irredeemable? Will you have me pay the price demanded of a traitor? It is just, if you deem that I have chosen a course that will be ill for the city. But I do not know how else to proceed. Always I have tried to act as honour demands, as you demand, and now you say I have failed in your trust of me by shunning the most tainted and tainting thing this exists, the very essence of the Enemy's power over us. I will follow the dictates of duty and honour, and your commands, my father, yet will that now please you? I know not._

"Lord, the water is ready." With an effort, Faramir brought his thoughts back to his surroundings, the book open but unread on his lap. He closed it and rose.

"Thank you, Beren," he said. He turned to the bathroom and set his muddled thoughts to one side. The hot water seemed soothing; comforting; too kind to resist. _Like Boromir whenever I needed it, _he thought. Tears of weariness, of grief, of loneliness dripped into the bath. _Last time I had to withstand Nazgûl I was with you, my brother. It was more easily accomplished when we were together. But now I must face them alone._ He felt cold and sick; and thrust aside with a shudder the memory of the fear they had inspired in him.

Faramir lifted himself out of the bath, unsullied now by the dirt of campaign. A cold ache persisted in his breast despite the bath and the almost oppressive warmth of the room and he shivered as he dressed in soft, thick night clothes, unable to warm himself. Coming out of the bathroom he spied the now open door to his bedchamber, the bedclothes turned back, the sheets warmed with a warming pan while he had bathed and a lamp burning next to the bed. _If tomorrow's need will be sterner, it will be met. But for now I may sleep._ He turned to dismiss his servant. "Beren, I will sleep now, despite the early hour. I shall have no further need of you this evening, but would you call me in good time for the council meeting in the morning?"

"Yes, lord. I wish you goodnight."

"Goodnight, Beren."

Beren watched as Faramir stumbled on his way through the door and to his bed, slightly concerned that he might fall. He wondered when Faramir had last had a full night's rest. _Does he ever sleep in the field?_ he wondered._  
_  
Faramir made it safely to bed, but Beren continued to watch his now sleeping face, noting his pallor and the shadows of weariness under his eyes. _Does he have to defeat the Dark Lord himself before he will be given the chance to sleep until he wakes of his own accord?_ he thought. Beren sighed, shaking his head in disapproval as he closed the door and turned back to finish his duties before withdrawing. The steward's younger son, now only son, was much loved by all who served in the citadel, who thought he seemed to be driven very hard.

A moment later, or so it seemed, Faramir felt a hand on his shoulder shaking him into wakefulness.  
"Good morning, my lord. It is time."  
He blinked and stretched, noticing the aches from the long hours in the saddle the previous day. He sat up, swung his legs out of bed and shivered.  
"Good morning, Beren. Thank you."

* * *

Faramir strode from the council chamber, his boots sounding on the stone floor with a pride and resolution he did not feel. A sadness so great he felt numb filled his heart. _So now_ _I am but a military resource; and a faithless one at that, like a mercenary: useful at times but never beloved,_ he thought_. I am as a weapon to be used until it breaks then to be discarded without a second thought; as most likely my body will lie broken on the field, unheeded until some orc spies flesh on which to gorge._

_I would that I might kiss you again before I die, my father. But it is not to be._

A great sense of weariness and cold seeped through him, stealing in past defences weakened by his last thought which had brought a pang of grief keen enough to pierce his numbness.

Faramir shook himself. _These thoughts are not ones with which to linger now. There is a task to accomplish_. But as he walked through the citadel he did not manage to silence his heart. It was as if his heart was being eaten away by a dead and silent stream of grief and weariness running ceaselessly through it, like a river flowing through the crumbling foundations of a tall tower, eroding a black cavern beneath the walls, while all looked well on the outside. He could not stop the flow; he could see naught to do but to ignore it; pretend it was not there until the whole edifice came crashing down into a great pit hollowed out by the relentless flood to be washed away in fragments.  
_  
Boromir, _he thought,_when I die will you be there?_

_Father has sent me out and I cannot give him the victory he needs. I will do all I can; for him and for you and for Gondor, but it will not be enough. I am not man enough to save our city without you; to save the city we loved. I have not your strength, and you are dead._

_O Boromir! He has called me traitor! He deems that I have betrayed him, Boromir, because I let go into the nameless land the Ring that killed you. Boromir, I no longer understand how he wishes me to judge. I am sent forth to prove my fealty; and he sends me out unthanked, because he has no faith that my deeds will be such as will merit thanks._

_The wounds in my heart will be mortal, Boromir, if I leave them untended; but I cannot tend them. There is no time._

_I will never surrender to the enemy. My all may be insufficient and my skill and my courage he may question – they are both less than were yours – but my loyalty to Gondor I will prove with my blood. Maybe our father will believe my love; or maybe not; but it will be writ large that it will be there plain to see if he chooses to look_.

_O Boromir, I have lost his love! Boromir, he has sent me out into battle with no blessing!_

His eyes were suddenly blind with tears. He stopped walking and blinked them away furiously from his eyes, taking several deep breaths as he regained control of himself. Fortunately the passage through which he was walking was empty and he leaned against the wall, closing his eyes momentarily while he composed himself. He wondered briefly about seeking out his father but dismissed the thought as futile. _No, there is no more place for words: let my body speak for me; let my deeds be my gift of love. If it comes to it, I will gladly offer even my life, for I give it to you, my father. You gave me my life: it is yours.  
_  
The sadness remained, but now it was overlaid with a calmer resignation. The external enemy he would fight until his last breath. The ever-enlarging void in his heart he could not heal now; so he would ignore it until such point as he had time to attend to it.

He turned his mind to practical matters, and walked on.  
_  
If I take 300, then with the rangers that will give me about 1000 in Osgiliath and leaves 9000 here, and about 3000 of the allies … not enough, but the best we can do. I should take only men willing to go, for it will be perilous, but no guardsmen; it is better that they stay to defend the city…  
_  
Faramir filled his thoughts with the plans for the force to defend Osgiliath, purposely shutting out all clamour of his heart as he continued down to the barracks. _There is a task to accomplish._

As Faramir's forces marched out of the gate taking the road to Osgiliath his mind turned to the words of Mithrandir a few minutes past, trying cling to the hope that he might be right.  
_  
Would that it might be as Mithrandir has said! But how can it be so in truth?_

_My father is not one to be overcome by his passions; yet he turns his face away from me in anger even as I go, it may well be, to my death. Why deny me that which he gives to any servant whom he dispatches to do his bidding; unless he wills that I leave unblessed since I am indeed unloved; he will not speak a falsehood and in truth cares not at all whether I return?_

_And even if he does still love me, there is little chance that I will ever know it… but I love him, and I shall to my dying breath._

Faramir drew a deep breath.

_No more of this! These thoughts are not for now. There is a task to be accomplished. If the captain does not concentrate his mind on the matter in hand, men will die needlessly._

He heard a gruff voice from his childhood, that of his first sword instructor, echoing in his mind.  
_"Lord Faramir, pay attention! You will get yourself killed if you do that when it is for real!"_

_Does it matter? My father would that I had been slain already, _whispered Faramir's heart in reply.  
_  
Cease this now! _he told himself sternly. _You have a thousand men who trust you to lead them home again, and every piece of damage inflicted upon the enemy increases the chance that the home they will return to will stand at the end of this attack. To flee in death would be the deed of a craven. Gondor deserves better than that; the men deserve better than that, and you will give it! There is a task to accomplish._

Author's note:  
"I hope that I have not done ill?" said by Faramir to Denethor is a quotation from ROTK, as are Gandalf's and Denethor's words as recalled by Faramir.


	3. Battle of Osgiliath

Faramir knew Osgiliath well, but not in the way that he wished he could have known it. He found the ruined beauty of Gondor's old capital city profoundly sad; a potent symbol of their decline. They had, he knew, none to blame but themselves for its ruin; in their pride and sloth having few sons and those there were falling prey to strife, but the burned or abandoned buildings showed clearly the insidious ruin of Gondor; and the cruelty and wanton destruction of war. However, such was the quality of the original construction that even fifteen hundred years after the destruction wrought purposefully during the kinstrife, much remained that bore eloquent testimony to the city's original magnificence.

Still the remains were of considerable military value, and the buildings strong; almost any of the ancient derelict buildings could be used without fear that they would collapse, although only the buildings which now made up the garrison, and the road and its fortifications, were maintained; and since the destruction of the bridge during the battle the previous year, the road had been cut.

They had been able to leave by the fourth hour of the day. His heart had been touched by the number of men who had volunteered to go: they had numbered many more than he would take and in the end men had been chosen by lot.

Faramir set a steady but not unduly hasty pace as they marched towards Osgiliath. Fifty of his three hundred were horsemen, and they now rode at the front and at the rear. He did not know what they would find, and wished his men to be still fresh for battle when they arrived; for it was possible that they would be fighting immediately. In addition, no-one could see far when the light at noon-day was as at dusk, and he sent scouts out ahead to give as much warning as possible of the approach of any enemy.

Soon messengers returned saying that Osgiliath was not yet under attack but the garrison was aware of their approach and preparing for their arrival as ordered. Hot food would be ready for a thousand men by the time they arrived.

Faramir immersed himself in the task before him; and he concentrated on it without distractions of any kind. As the march wore on he considered his strategy and tried to second-guess Mordor's plans. He weighed the merits of secrecy and openness in the defence, and decided in favour of as much fanfare as possible. _We probably cannot stop them, so we must impede them as much as possible to slow their advance. The more we are thought to be, the more precautions they will take, the more time they will take to cross the river and the greater the chance that Rohan will come to our aid in time._

The river was fairly full; and the island in the centre of the stream would be a welcome respite in the crossing. _Therefore it must be held against them, _he thought. He decided to use some of the rangers as marksmen to pick off the enemy while they were crossing; for men or orcs packed together in boats would be an easy target, at least in day light. Each of his foot-soldiers carried two spare quivers of arrows as well as his own supply to increase the stocks of arrows held for the rangers to use.

Then there was the question of landing sites. The most convenient places would be around the main road to Minas Tirith, but there were many other large thoroughfares leading from the once-lovely Colonnade of Anor which ran by the water's edge. _So we must defend the main road, and block those that we cannot defend. And the men will hide in side roads, guided by men in the high watch posts, so they can block the passage of those that manage to cross. _

_But we must also give thought to retreat. Unless this attack is very much less than it appears, we will not be able to stem it; so we must ensure that the way back remains open. Once we can do no more damage to the enemy in Osgiliath we must still be able to return home to defend the current city of Gondor._

More scouts had returned; and reported that there were no signs of any foes anywhere west of the river so Faramir called for song and voices rose together, lightening a little the gloom in men's hearts if not in the air around them.

In mid-afternoon they clattered into the causeway forts. The guard was greatly cheered by their arrival and it was with much renewed strength that they watched Faramir and his men leave after a brief pause to make for the main camp in Osgiliath at the other end of the causeway.

Almost every soldier in the garrison came out to see their arrival. They were greeted with cheers; and even after the cheering had died away there were broad smiles on all sides as Faramir and his men entered the courtyard.

Egalmoth, the commander of the Osgiliath garrison greeted them joyfully.  
"Your arrival is most welcome, lord," he said. Faramir smiled, and looked round the square.  
"Is everyone present, Egalmoth? I would speak to the men now, then I will call the commanders together to explain the full plans," he said.  
"I think all came out to greet you, except for the watchers by the river and the men in the causeway forts."  
"Good." Faramir re-mounted his horse so that he could be seen easily and turned round to face the assembled soldiers.

"We face, as you know, a great assault against us, long awaited. The fight will be hard, but not impossible. However, unless I have very much mistaken the size of the force arrayed against us, we will not repel them here and victory will not be ours at Osgiliath. Our purpose here is to delay the enemy advance; to harry them at every point for as long as we can, but not until all hope for ourselves is lost. Even more than usual, Gondor is served better by our lives than our deaths, for the very city of Minas Tirith itself will soon be under attack and once we have done what we may here we must return to defend our home.  
"So: here is not the place to win renown by a hopeless stand. We will win renown quite sufficient by our merely necessary deeds. Once we have finished, we will retreat.  
"The task set before us is perilous; and Gondor needs us to fight with all our heart as I know we will. We must show them that they must fear the wrath of Gondor and know that our valour cannot be worn away however hard they try, as surely they will. We will strike hard, then vanish before they know where to look and when it is time to go, we will fly; but through our choosing, not theirs. Some of us will die, but many more of us will not, and that is my aim for every one of us. May good fortune follow each one of you, out into peril, but then home again.  
"The daymeal will be served shortly, then we will rest, but we must be ready to fight the instant it is required of us. Every one of us, I know, fights for Gondor with all his strength. But we must husband that strength well, for Gondor has need of it; so for now, make the most of the rest!" He smiled; and they cheered him again, but he did not wait long receiving their praise. He waved an acknowledgement then turned away and dismounted. As the men dispersed he spoke to Egalmoth:  
"It is important that we eat, but time is limited. Have a separate table for all company commanders and above, and we will discuss the plans over the meal. How far afield do you have scouts at present?" he asked.  
"They are charged to go to the crossroads or until they sight the enemy, and then to return or send word," he said. "Everywhere all seems still and silent. Until the great darkness came, East Osgiliath was guarded at all times and often busy; now all have vanished and my men can find none abroad in all the city."  
"As I found in Ithilien; the land was completely empty," said Faramir pensively.

The soldiers spoke together as they walked over to the mess.  
"He's not as spectacular as his brother, but you know he can do it. He will not be dismayed whatever they try to do to us," he said. Another nodded.  
"He wins the battle and gets you home; and that is what you need in a captain," he replied.  
"'I've served under him on and off for years, and there isn't a better captain in all Gondor, I deem. Men speak of the mild, gentle Lord Faramir – Ha! – anyone who says that has never seen him with his sword drawn!" he said.  
"And if you do something you shouldn't … Have you ever broken a rule on his watch?" said another. "Well, I did once, and let us say only that I will not be doing it again!"  
"But he tells you that you can do something that seemed impossible; and suddenly you can," said another man.  
"And he cares. He always takes the time to speak, and I have never known him forget a name or a face even if he sees a man only once."

There was a stew of beans and meat ready in the torch-lit hall, with bread and wine and apple pies. Hot food and company eased the tension and refreshed the men, who were talking quietly and occasionally even laughing as the meal progressed. Faramir listened during the first part of the meal as Egalmoth told him of troop dispositions and strengths, and the stores and supplies presently at the garrison. Once he had heard everything he needed to know, Faramir started to outline his plans.

"As I said to the men earlier, the aim of this operation is to harry and delay the enemy for as long as possible, while anticipating the need to retreat when necessary in order to return home and make a further stand in Minas Tirith. We will move forward as far as possible, for the further we advance, the more ground the enemy will have to fight for, but we must make sure that the way of escape remains open. Men's lives should not be thrown away needlessly; and we are few enough as it is.  
"I will station a hundred archers on the islet on which was the central pier of the bridge, and send over the river another hundred archers and two hundred spearmen. I will lead them, for the responsibility for the timing of the withdrawal will be mine alone. We will set watch fires ahead of us, for in the dark of this coming night we will be blind, while orcs should be able to see fairly well. Until we have withdrawn over the river, there is to be no light shown on the western side, lest it inadvertently shown up against it men on the eastern bank. We will withdraw back to the western bank once we can hold them back from crossing no longer. Boats will be kept on the east bank, one for each ten men, but moored to the west to enable a swift return, and an extra coracle in case of need. Leaving one boat so small will be of little use to the enemy, but it could save the life of a man left behind in error.  
"Meanwhile, Egalmoth, you will command on the west. Watch fires are to be built along the waterfront, ready to be lit immediately we have retreated from the east bank, if it is night, or if I give the command by horn signal. In addition, if the enemy forces start to cross in such number that you cannot contain them with ease, light the fires anyway and we will take our chances on the other bank. In that circumstance it may be that none will return; in which case you will take overall command of the operation.  
"You must also block all the ways leading away from the Colonnade of Anor except for the main road, to force the enemy along one road so their superior numbers will be less of an advantage. However, leave watch fires and two mounted messengers in each blocked way to bring word in case they manage to force a passage.  
"Man all the high watch towers and put the remaining archers concealed overlooking the river, and the main force should be arranged by company in the side roads ready to fall on such of the enemy as get through the screen of archers. If groups can be surrounded and destroyed at the signal of the watchmen, so much the better. Have also men with axes in the companies nearest the river, so that enemy boats may be holed if the opportunity presents itself.  
"I expect the time will come when we are overwhelmed on the western side also. Then, we will retreat to the causeway forts; and when the time comes that they can no longer be held we will return to Minas Tirith.  
"Is there anything anyone does not understand? Does anyone have any questions?" ended Faramir.

"When do you think the attacks will start, lord?" asked one.

"Probably tonight, but I know not. All preparations must be made as soon as possible, but the men must rest while they can. If they can be spared, the men who marched from Minas Tirith today should sleep tonight. But I will set out for the east in two hours at the latest, with Mablung as my second in command."

"What about the wounded, Captain?" asked another.

"I will speak to the leeches after we have finished here. Initially, the wounded will be treated as normal; later, we may be too hard pressed to take all of the wounded with us, but any decisions of that nature will be taken by me, if I still live.  
"I will leave you now to start making ready. May good fortune follow us all," he said and rose.

With Mablung at his heel, Faramir went next in search of the leeches. In a small, quiet side-room he spoke to them:  
"I am leading a force across the river shortly, to harry the enemy; and later we will be falling back. Over the next few days, probably, we will need to retreat back to Minas Tirith in stages. You will receive the wounded here while we can still hold West Osgiliath, but as soon as each man is able to be moved, I want you to send to the causeway forts those of the wounded who could be saved if they got back to Minas Tirith. I can make no promises about whether return will be possible for the wounded, but they will have a better chance from the causeway forts than from here. It is likely however, that we will be hard pressed, and those mortally wounded should remain in Osgiliath, for space given to the dying may prevent aid coming to a man who could live.  
"Also, set aside a room where the dead may be laid. I doubt there will be opportunity to bury them.  
"I am sorry. I will need your guidance about the condition of wounded men, and how long each is likely to survive, but if we should come to the point where any man must be left, that decision I will take myself. I will lay that burden on no other man if I am yet numbered among the living."  
The men around him looked at him with pale, solemn faces.

"I know you will do your best by us, lord," said the senior healer.

"Thank you, Beleg," answered Faramir. He took his leave and went next to the messes where the men were resting after the meal. His arrival was greeted with immediate silence and every man rose to his feet.

"Soon I will cross the river, with a hundred archers from the rangers, and a hundred spearmen, not those who have marched from Minas Tirith today. I wish to take volunteers, but any man who wishes to come must be able both to swim and to handle a boat. I hope, however, that your skill in swimming will not be put to the test. You will wear mail concealed beneath your clothes, and those of you with a green cloak will exchange it for a double-sided green/grey one. Any who needs mail or a different cloak will make his way to the stores immediately, and we will assemble in the courtyard in half an hour, where archers will be issued with arrows and every man with two days' rations. Another hundred archers, also from those who can swim, will be needed to man the eyot in mid-stream."

Five hundred men assembled. Faramir smiled to see them. "You show yourselves to be stout-hearted men, but not all are needed over the river. You may draw lots to choose."

Thirty-one light boats with wooden frames covered by leather left shortly for the east bank, trailing long tails of rope moored to the west bank. They landed quietly and while the first scouts slipped off into the dark, the boats were hidden and secured. The city was deathly silent, and seemed empty.

Fairly soon the scouts returned. They had seen nothing and all was still; so Faramir advanced to the eastern end of Osgiliath where the road, passing through the wall, was more easily defensible, leaving a small detachment of men by the river with orders to block with rubble and stones as many roads as possible starting from the extremes of the waterfront.

The night was closing in fast by the time Faramir's men were in place, concealed on the walls, in buildings and side-roads around the main road leading west. Watch fires had been built but not lit, when a man, a scout in green, came running wildly out of the undergrowth at the roadside and down the road into the city.

Mablung intercepted him and brought him before Faramir. He was wide-eyed, pale and sweating; and could hardly speak.

"They … they are coming, lord! The Nazgûl!" he cried. There was nothing within sight or earshot along the straight road, and Faramir held his gaze. He spoke gently:  
"Anborn, you are safe with me here for the moment. Calm yourself, and tell me what you have seen."  
The man closed his eyes tightly. He took several shuddering breaths, then he opened his eyes again and began to speak more coherently:  
"There is a great army that I think has come forth from Minas Morgul, lord. They are about two leagues away, horsemen in front then rank upon rank of orcs and at the head comes one on horseback who is like to those … things that assailed us here last year, only this one is yet more terrible!" he finished. He started to tremble violently.  
"Were there any sign of scouts ahead of the main force?" asked Faramir.  
"N..no, lord," answered Anborn. He closed his eyes tightly and bowed his head. His trembling became even worse.  
"Anborn, we both faced them last year, and we are both still here. It is my intention that we should both get home once our tasks are accomplished now. You will rest a little now and have something to eat, then when you are ready you will come back and be stationed here. I need your marksmanship!" said Faramir. Anborn saluted shakily and at a sign from Faramir, Mablung took Anborn's arm and led him through to an inner chamber where they sat talking softly as Anborn was given wine, and bread.

Faramir sat writing. He folded the sheet of paper, sealed it and handed it to Mablung as he re-appeared with Anborn who was still a little pale though he had mastered himself. He now looked resolute, if somewhat ashamed.

"Mablung, send this back to Egalmoth, with a message to send its import back to Minas Tirith. I intend to lead twenty-four archers along the road to meet the host and trouble them in their arrogance. Anborn, you and I are going to show this host that even now, it cannot move freely in the lands of Gondor," said Faramir.

It was Mablung's turn to blench.  
"I would ask you to take care, lord. I am not a man brave enough to stand before your father and explain to him why I have come home without his son," he said. Faramir smiled grimly. _He might not care as much as you think he would, Mablung,_ he thought.  
"Fear not for me," he said. "My fate will be that determined for me, whatever that may be."  
Anborn looked proud and delighted. "Thank you, lord," he said. "I … I am sorry about earlier."  
"Forget it. Now we will go and get the others," said Faramir.

They set off, keeping to the road since the high kerb prevented them from getting lost in the dark and enabled them to move swiftly and silently. Each man carried, in addition to his arrows, a large faggot of wood and an axe. They piled the faggots to form a block across the road a league from the city, and the pile was drenched in oil ready to set alight. The archers hid themselves in the undergrowth each side of the road just beyond the fire, where they waited.

"Aim for the horses, and then captains if they can be distinguished," Faramir had said. "That should produce the most confusion at the least cost to us; and make every arrow count. Start to shoot on my command, then loose a dozen arrows at will, and retreat to behind the fire. There in the darkness we will re-group and fall back some way. Remember the Nazgul inspire fear, but it is fear beyond reason, and the fire will conceal us from them to some degree, even if we feel very exposed."

They did not have long to wait. Within the hour, the tramp of many feet and noise of horses' hooves and harness was audible coming steadily nearer. When Faramir judged them to be about a fifty yards away, he threw a torch and the wood blazed up high. He gave a blast on a horn, and returned to his place by Anborn who was shooting steadily.

At the sudden light and noise some of the horses had reared in alarm. The swish of arrows filled the air then was drowned by screams, curses and cries, as horses collapsed and formations fell into confusion; while the troops behind continued to advance into the chaos.

The rangers did not wait to see the full effects of it. Before two minutes had passed they had left their positions and were moving quickly to re-group behind the fire; then they ran, retracing their steps. It was half a league before they paused.  
"That went well, it seemed, but we will not be able to do it twice," said Faramir.

Then, hoping that the noise would pass unnoticed by their foes, still distracted by the previous attack, they felled three mighty trees which crashed down across the road. They were towering cedars; centuries old, Faramir thought, but the sacrifice was necessary. No tree would survive the rule of the dark lord if he extended the devastation of Mordor through Ithilien. Six furlongs from the city, they built a similar block; then they ran swiftly through the darkness back to the city walls. Mablung greeted them with relief.

"They will be unable to approach at speed now," said Faramir, "as the road is blocked twice before them, even once they can move on from where we attacked them. The next task is to impede their approach to the city. While we await them we will be fairly free, and the more we appear to be, the better. So, we will use a hundred spearmen as a screen behind many watch fires while we block the road as much as possible. But be vigilant, and work armed. There is significant risk from advance parties of orcs sent silently ahead."

Osgiliath was full of loose stone and rubble, and it was strewn thickly along the road by Faramir's men, then supplemented by more felled trees. They had been working solidly for two and a half hours when another scout returned.

"They have reached the first block of trees across the road, lord," he said. He grinned. "They did not sound pleased." Faramir smiled faintly and dismissed him. _You would laugh to hear the tale of this night so far, Boromir, _he thought. _May I still be able to say that by the end of it._

"They are not far away, now, Mablung. I hope they will be a long time yet, but we do not know. Change round the guard and the working parties, so the guard is doubled, and collect more wood to store by each fire. We will withdraw to the wall quite soon."

Now all the surface of the road within bow-shot of the walls was covered thickly with stones and fallen trees and they started to bestrew the firmer parts of the ground at the sides of the road. Oil was poured over the stored piles of wood by each fire then, picking their way through the obstacles, the last of the guards returned to the relative safety of the space behind the ruined walls of the city.

Faramir positioned his men around the road, with the archers on the walls, covering the obstructions, and they waited in the black dark. As time passed, the darkness weighed more and more heavily on men's spirits. Faramir walked constantly from group to group, encouraging his men and talking with them, lifting their spirits in the oppressive night.

About an hour after midnight the head of the enemy column came to the edge of the ring of fires, gleams of firelight showing on armour, but they halted. Faramir made no move. A little while later, orcs started to creep through the gaps between the fires, and Faramir gave the signal to shoot. Some screamed as they were struck; others yelped and fled. There was a pause.

From beyond the ring of fires, orcs now started to rake the burning brands towards themselves. The next arrows from the walls were flaming, and lit each of the oil-soaked piles of wood between the fires. They burned high and for the moment the attempt was abandoned as more green-fletched arrows found marks in the new light. Their foes appeared to flee and the men of Gondor waited, gazing into the void beyond the light of the watch fires as time passed slowly.

Mablung stared over the wall. "If there is one of those … nearby, why does he not press forward? What is he waiting for?" he mused uneasily.  
Anborn laughed quietly beside him. "Someone shot his horse," he said in a soft voice. Mablung gasped.  
"The Captain?" he queried.  
"Aye, I think so," he answered.  
Mablung shook his head. "Does he know no fear?" he said.  
"Apparently not," answered Anborn dryly. Mablung chuckled.

At morning it became evident why their enemy had waited. As shadow slowly lightened, it became possible to pick out a wall of tall shields all around the glowing embers of the watch fires. Archers stood behind narrow gaps in it, ready to pick off any who showed himself on the wall or in the gap where once had stood the gate of the city. Then tall, cruel-faced Haradrim moved slowly in blocks, shields in front of them and over their heads, while orcs scurried beneath, frantically moving stones away from the road. They shot many flaming arrows at the fallen trees and eventually the branches caught fire, followed by the trunks. They would take several hours to burn; but by the time the work of clearing the stones was finished, the remains of the felled trees would be little of a barrier.

There were few clear shots. The men of Gondor exploited any opening, but not many orcs fell, and fewer men. Slowly the ground was cleared and the barrier keeping the forces of Mordor from the gateway became narrower. But fewer archers were necessary; so each man had some time to rest and could return to duty refreshed. In the middle morning Faramir sent the spearmen back to the waterfront, bearing a message that the main road also should be blocked for three quarters of its width.

Soon after the spearmen left, towards the end of his time off-duty, Anborn sought out Faramir.  
"May I speak with you alone, Captain?" he asked.  
Faramir looked again over the wall and nodded. He led Anborn into a ruined building near the city wall.  
"Speak," he said.  
"When they have cleared the obstructions, it seems to me that they will come through in great numbers, and we will not be able to stop them. That, I think, is why you have sent the spearmen back. But until the enemy get through, not all our archers here are needed at once. If I stayed, with another eight men, perhaps, you could lead the others back to hold the crossing when the time comes," he said.  
"You know what you are suggesting, Anborn?" asked Faramir.  
"Yes, Captain."  
"Why you, Anborn?" asked Faramir.  
"I am a good choice. My marksmanship is such that my arrows will not be wasted. And my wife is long dead, as are my parents. I have no child, but my brother's children will carry on my father's line, if Gondor stands. And after what I did earlier … I wish to die in honour, not in shame," he said.  
"There is no shame in fearing the Nazgûl, Anborn. I have never met a man who did not. I doubt if it is possible that such a man could exist," said Faramir.  
"Nonetheless, my pride makes me wish to prove my courage. I do not wish to let another man die in my place," he said.  
"Your brother is in the citadel guard?" asked Faramir.  
"He is."  
"Very well. Bless you, Anborn, and thank you. I will remember your gift until the end of my days," said Faramir softly. There was a brief pause. "I will leave one boat, hoping against hope that you have the chance to use it. Have you spoken to anyone else about this?" he continued.  
"No."  
"Then I will tell the other men, and ask for volunteers to stay with you. Come and receive your lord's blessing, if you will," said Faramir. Anborn knelt before him, and Faramir put his hands on Anborn's shoulders, kissing his brow.

He went to where the off-duty archers were resting.  
"Soon we will be withdrawing to the waterfront, but not all of us. Anborn is staying to keep the enemy under pressure and to give us more time. I will accept offers from up to eight men to stay with him, but I expect those who stay to see death before the end of this day.  
"Any man who wishes to volunteer to stay may come to me in the next half hour. Think over it well before you come," he said.

Ten men came to him. Each was questioned, and he accepted eight of the offers.

He calculated the rate of use of arrows, and the size of the remaining obstruction then added half again to the result. He did not wish to waste their finite stocks, yet the sacrifice of Anborn and his fellows must be put to the greatest possible use. The arrows were stacked neatly near the top of the ruined wall, and the men drew up in formation in a side street out of sight of the main road. The last eight archers now manned the wall. Faramir bade farewell to each one staying, clasped their hands and kissed them. Then they replaced their fellows on the wall, and Faramir led the others, by a slightly circuitous route so as not to be seen, away through the city.

In half an hour they were back at the riverfront. They were greeted joyfully, but the greetings were brief.  
"Show me what has been done by way of preparations," said Faramir.

Through the night the men by the waterfront had worked constantly, strewing rubble to block and foul the roads to the waterfront, but the streets leading to the waterfront were many and broad, and had once been beautiful.

"This should delay them, and yet more once the main road is fully blocked. However, our blockages are too many for us to defend for long and we will spend our strength to greater effect if we strive against them as they cross Anduin. Soon it will be time for us to return to the west bank," said Faramir.

As Faramir's men swiftly blocked the rest of the main road by the embankment as well as they could, the obstruction outside the eastern gateway of Osgiliath grew ever smaller. Finally the army started to advance. Despite the shields most of the arrows found marks, but they were not able to stem the advance. The archers turned and continued to shoot into the backs of those who had passed them. They were well hidden; and while they still had arrows neither archer now swordsman of Mordor managed to dislodge them, but eventually they came to the end of their arrows. Then the orcs closed in. They drew their swords, but each man in turn was overpowered. The orc commander snarled at his troops:  
"Keep the heads whole! You can have your sport with the rest of them, but high command wants the heads. They haven't said what for, but anyone who spoils one will have his head collected to be given in instead."

Instead of the coracle, one larger boat was left, as Faramir had promised. The rest were paddled back across the river. As they passed there were cheers from the archers stationed mid-stream, glad to see their captain returning unharmed.

Egalmoth had used the time wisely. The archers on the island had been replaced regularly during the night so every man had rested and duties had not been too onerous. On the west side also, all the roads apart from the main road had been obstructed with rubble and much in the way of stores and equipment had been withdrawn to the causeway forts. Faramir heard Egalmoth's report while he took a late breakfast, and told him of what they had done east of the river.

"We stung them and fled, like a fly that bites a horse, but the horse reared and that, I hope, caused more damage than the sting of the fly will have done in itself;" he said, "but who knows what will come of it all in the end."  
"Did you lose many men, Captain?" asked Egalmoth.  
"None when we attacked them," answered Faramir, "but we left nine behind covering our escape. I do not have hope that they will return." He sighed.  
"I will write to their kin now, while there is yet time," he said.  
He moved to the writing desk, then wrote up a full report of the previous night's operations and started on the letters, first to Anborn's brother.

_From Faramir, son of the Lord Denethor, to Halborn, greetings._

_The news I now write to bring to you is of great grief; grief that is beyond the power of words to assuage._

_Anborn, your brother, has been slain in the service of his country._

_He gave his life willingly, for Gondor, for his comrades, and for me. His steadfast valour I will remember until the end of my days, along with his unwavering loyalty and constant good humour. Of his skill with his bow he was justly proud; and it was to offer that skill that he suggested that he should stay to cover the withdrawal of the rest of the force, a course which he foresaw would lead to his death._

_It is with further sorrow that I must tell you that his body is lost. Of his death I have no certain knowledge, for he died after I and all others had gone, save the eight companions who volunteered to stay with him for the same purpose, and who have shared his end. I was not present to note his passing, but I bade him farewell with a heartfelt kiss._

_Gondor has a long memory; and the sacrifice made by your brother and those like him, who have given their lives for those of us who yet live, will be remembered until Gondor itself is no more._

_I enclose a copy of my report of the engagement in which your brother laid down his life, so that you may have all knowledge possible of your brother's end._

_It remains only for me to say: May Anborn, your brother, and my beloved comrade-in-arms, sleep in peace._

_Faramir_

All the letters were finished and sealed and packaged with his report to go back to the city with the next messenger, and Faramir was cleaning his pen, when a messenger entered the chamber where he had been writing.

"Lord, the enemy is in sight," he said.  
Faramir thanked him and passed out to the waterfront. There, plain to see along the straight road that led from the east, was the dark mass of the host of Mordor. He guessed that there was under half an hour left before it would arrive at the river.

Those archers not on the island were stationed on the buildings overlooking the river, while the watchers climbed to their high posts. Most of the spearmen were drawn up in companies in the side roads leading off from the main road along which their foe would wish to pass; the rest of the spearmen and men with axes waited by the water behind their shields, and mounted messengers guarded each blocked road.

The waiting was brief.

About two furlongs away from the river, the marching column divided into many groups and turned along side streets away from the main road. Faramir watched with a slight smile as howls of rage rose from behind the buildings facing the river as the marching companies came upon the blockages made during the night by the men of Gondor.

It was too far for sure shooting in the poor light, and they watched unable to act as orcs slowly cleared the rubble, driven on with whips and threats.

By midday the roads were clear again. All Faramir could do was watch as from buildings facing the river the orcs scurried back and forth bringing out floats and barges from where they had been hidden, and coils upon coils of rope. In not long the first wave would cross. His failure during the previous night to find and destroy the stored gear of war irked him, but there was nothing that he could do about it at that point. He called together the commanders for a final briefing.

"They appear to be planning to cross in great numbers. Our archers should aim for commanders in particular, but also floats as well as enemy soldiers. I will command the axe-men and spearmen on the waterfront, and our aim will be to cut ropes and destroy boats as well as to kill as many as possible of those who manage to land. Those who get beyond the waterfront will be forced down one road initially by the blockages of the others.

"Egalmoth, you will command the spearmen hidden in the side streets. You are charged with ensuring that none get past you to continue west. Hold the way for as long as you can, but your task will become progressively harder as time passes. Send word to me once you have no further reserves and at that point either I will send you reinforcements or we will withdraw to the causeway forts. That will be our way of escape, so it is most important that control of the road stays in the hands of Gondor. Does anyone have any queries?"

No-one spoke.

"Then let us go each to his station, and may fate treat us kindly. Lest death take me ere I see you again: farewell!"

Faramir took his place with his men on the quay. Boat after boat filled with orcs ready to cast off. They were being prepared all along the waterfront and only when all the boats were ready did they leave the far bank and start to paddle slowly across the stream, each boat trailing a rope to which were attached a long line of floats made of inflated hides.

Soon after they were on the water Faramir's archers on the central island started to shoot at the floats and the orcs in the boats nearest too them. The weight of the ropes and pierced hides started to drag some of the boats downstream; and the enraged cries of their crews filtered across to the western bank as boats collided one with another and their cables became entangled.

But at both extremes of the long embankment boats were getting through with few of their floats damaged and their crews mostly unharmed. Faramir sent a message to Egalmoth to advance some of his men towards the centre of the quay then, with a company of spearmen and a third of the axe-men, he ran swiftly south to the downstream end of the quay, while Mablung took a similar detachment north.

The enemy crews had been well drilled. When a boat touched, first it was secured with several lines; then soldiers poured ashore and formed a ring protecting their fellows who rapidly knocked further fixing points into the stone-work. As soon as the main cable bearing the floats was fixed firmly, the boat cast off to return to the east and re-cross trailing a further rope with floats strung along its length.

Before the men of Gondor could get near the boat or its cable they had to deal with its guards and by that time often the boat had gone. At first the axe-men usually managed to cut free the cables, but they were merely drawn back to the east side to be sent again with another boat-load of soldiers after the punctured floats had been replaced. And each time they engaged more rings of guards, Faramir lost a few more men.

Now there appeared on the far bank a tall, sinister horseman. The orcs moved yet faster, driven on by a madness of fear, and lines of Southron archers drew up opposite the central island in the stream, while boat-loads of orcs started to use the current to their advantage, catching the cables that trailed from their boats round the upstream end so that they would be swept onto the westward shore of the island. Then as the orcs started to land on the island the horseman gave the command to shoot and his cry pierced the gloom and reached the western bank.

Every man paused. Some shuddered; others wept at the cry which chilled men's hearts and froze their limbs. Weapons fell from hands paralysed by fear. Gondor's volleys of arrows faltered, and even those that were loosed found fewer of their marks, as trembling hands took aim and released the bowstrings. Faramir watched in impotence and sorrow as his archers on the central island were surrounded, hopelessly outnumbered. A soldier at his side gazed at the island in horror.

"Lord, can nothing be done to help them?" he cried desperately.

"No, Dior. If I were to send more men to them we would lose the quay and our escape route, and even then it is likely that I would merely be sending yet more men to die with them, not to save them," answered Faramir with a sigh. The man moaned softly.

"Do you mourn any in particular?" asked Faramir. The man nodded.

"My brother, … lord, … and … my closest … childhood friend," he said. He looked back to the island as a sudden movement caught his eye.

The orcs on the island were clustering round something. Then they screamed in delight and capered madly, waving a man's head by the hair, brandishing it gleefully at the men on the western bank of the river.

Dior wailed in grief. Faramir laid a hand on his shoulder, and called another man over to him.

"Barahir, take Dior back to the leeches. Dior, you may return to fight when the leeches say you are fit, or stay to help them if they need it," he said.

Faramir regarded the man with pity as he was led away, weeping wretchedly. _Poor man. That is a pain I know,_ he thought sadly, but he could afford little time for further thought on the matter; nor even the time to watch his men as they died.

"Falastir!" he called. "Take a message to Mablung at the other end of the quay. The eyot is falling: we must retreat to the central part of the quay. Tell him to withdraw his forces to meet me there." The messenger ran, as the next wave of boats arrived at the bank of the river, but this wave of orcs was not so fiercely attacked as the previous one had been for Faramir raised his horn to his lips and blew several blasts to rally his men to himself, then they retreated slowly to the central portion of the waterfront.

"Since the eyot has fallen we must now defend the road," he said to Mablung and Egalmoth in a hasty conference where the road met the quay. "Mablung, you and I will form a line encompassing the junction of the road and the quay, and as much of the quay as we can manage so as to continue attacking the cables as they arrive.

"The men who have been held in reserve must reinforce the line wherever it seems weakest. The mainstay of defence must be holding them back from the road, now. It is very important that the line does not break, but as we lose men it is likely that we will need to draw back and I expect we will be able to hold progressively less of the quay. The assault will be greatest on our flanks where the orcs will have been able to land unmolested on the parts of the bank that we can no longer hold.

"Once we are driven back to hold only the road, the remaining archers and watchmen must descend from their posts and we will retreat in alternate lines, as far as the causeway forts.

"Egalmoth: if there are any stores or equipment that have yet to be sent away they must go now, especially stores of arms. I do not wish our own folk to die on swords forged in Gondor. And the leeches and the wounded must go. Send a messenger to Beleg that he must withdraw; but tell him also that he may now take to the forts those of the dying who would survive the journey, that they may have a few more hours of life and the chance to die in the arms of their friends.

"Also, a messenger must be sent round all the archers so they know what to expect when the time comes to withdraw.

"You may return now to your positions; I will be with you shortly."

Faramir pulled out pencil and paper and scribbled a hasty dispatch. He folded the paper, put it back into his pocket and returned to the fray.

Faramir managed the southern part of the line and Mablung the northern. At the extremes they fought constantly, while the troops in the central portion of the quay concentrated on the main task of attacking the boats which arrived and casting adrift the cables they brought.

Now the forces of Mordor were establishing many cables between the east bank and the islet in the middle of the stream, and then separately taking ropes across the much shorter span from there to the western shore. Larger barges were being brought out now. Some were run between the floating booms as ferries; others were being moored side by side between cables as if starting to make up the first supports of a floating bridge.

Far away to the north and to the south of Faramir's line, boat-loads of orcs were now landing untroubled by Gondor and driven in frenzy by their own Captain. They filled the quay, howling with frustration as they found the blocked roads. Their commander sent them in hundreds to clear the first road while behind the blockage Egalmoth's mounted messenger spurred his horse to take the news.

An orc nocked an arrow to its bow. The first took the messenger between his shoulder blades; the second killed his horse, while the other messenger received a shaft in his breast and another in his neck; his horse too was slain that no word should be carried back to the commanders. The orcs worked swiftly now clearing the stones. Now they would break through every obstacle in their path.

The enemy strove fiercely against the men of Gondor, heedless of the cost, for their commander cared nothing for the lives of his troops; he had many.

The centre was being driven back away from the water's edge while Faramir and Mablung slowly drew back the line at the sides as it became necessary in order to keep the line strong and unbroken. Egalmoth surveyed the line constantly, dispatching reinforcements to Faramir or Mablung whenever they were needed.

Then came the time when twenty boats arrived at once and Faramir's and Mablung's men reached none of them. Faramir gave his dispatch to the messenger who was standing by him in case of need:

"Take this to the lord steward, and on the way collect and take also the package of letters I wrote earlier which should be in the causeway forts. But do not delay this one if the others have been lost or mislaid." He then ran up next to Mablung and said to him:

"Mablung we are doing no more good here; it is time to go."

He raised his horn and sounded the retreat. The orcs surged against them with wild cries, but still the line held and they managed to retreat in an orderly manner and made a stand across the entrance to the road while the archers hastily descended from their high posts and formed a line behind the spearmen ready to attempt the 'alternate withdrawal in lines' which was so difficult to do. Egalmoth commanded the spearmen and Mablung the archers, while Faramir, on horseback now, co-ordinated the manoeuvre.

First the archers loosed volleys of arrows over the heads of the spearmen, trying to open up a gap behind the front line of the enemy, close enough that the spearmen might, for a moment, manage to slay every foe who assailed them, but not so close that the arrows would fall among men of their own side; then at Faramir's signal the spearmen retreated as fast as they could until they reached the archers. As the spearmen stood to defend the line, the archers ran back fifty yards; then turned to provide cover for the spearmen to retreat again.

Timing was everything, and even then, with a determined enemy or anything less than the most accurate shooting, the casualty rate might be high. The orcs were so many and so unwavering that the retreat of the spearmen was perilous indeed and many fell.

Slowly they worked their way back through the city to the causeway forts. As they reached the causeway the road narrowed suddenly and Faramir could halve the width of the lines. Three quarters of the spearmen had been sent directly to the forts and half the archers when a man ran up to Faramir.

"My lord, Egalmoth is slain! And they have have taken his body!" he cried. The line of spearmen was wavering already.

"Then I will lead you," answered Faramir. He went forward.

"Stand steady, men of Gondor," he called in a loud, clear voice. Some turned to him with grief-stricken faces. All of them had seen their Captain's end.

"Later we will mourn him; now we fight as he wanted us to fight!" he said. They nodded, strengthened, and the withdrawal continued. It became a little easier, for the orcs were not yet ready to take the causeway; and the fastnesses of the forts at the western end would give Gondor brief respite.

Finally they got to the forts, and the gates across the road were shut and barred. Those orcs that had ventured along the causeway were assailed by volleys of arrows from above the gate. Some were slain; the rest fled. They were not yet ready to begin the assault on the forts in earnest.

Behind the gates there was a little rest to be had. Faramir called his commanders together.

"I am sorry to have to tell those of you who do not yet know that Egalmoth has fallen. We have no time now for mourning, but he is indeed most worthy of it.

"Now: are any of you in a position to give in his place the report he would give were he here?" he asked.

"Yes lord," answered one, "for I have been at his side for much of the time. All the stores of food were sent here last night, and much of the store of arms. The rest was sent earlier this morning, along with the wains and all the spare horses and the maps and papers from the garrison. The wounded, too, have been sent, but Beleg oversaw their evacuation so I do not know the details of that."

"_O Egalmoth, would that you could hear the praise you merit!" _said Faramir softly. He continued to his companions: "Our fallen comrade has served us well. Our task now is to hold these gates as long as we can, although I have no idea how long that will be. Once serious assault starts, it will be only a few hours, I fear, before the forts will fall, but we must make the most of the short rest we appear to have been given. The first thing to do is for the men to eat, and I wish for there to be a roll-call also. We have lost many, but I do not know quite how many, nor whom in many cases. I need to know the number that we have still at fighting strength, and bring me lists as soon as you have them of those slain and wounded, in so far as it can be ascertained. See now to your men, and rest also yourselves, as you may. Finally, should I fall, Mablung will take overall command," he said.

He went next to the courtyard where the men were resting. A cook was ladling food into bowls and men were hungrily eating the food offered to them, using bread and fingers to pick up every last drop. He moved among them, talking and listening to what they had to say. They were subdued and anxious, and red-rimmed eyes told of strain and weariness.

Within minutes all peace was shattered. High overhead came shadows that passed and re-passed, uttering cries which filled the listeners with horror and terror. The warm, comforting food turned to ashes in their mouths and even the little light which pierced the gloom seemed suddenly dimmer; it felt as if the walls closed in on them. Faramir shuddered. He felt very cold, and very weary, he realised. His guard on his heart slipped and grief suddenly hit him; he gasped with pain.

_Father, I … No! _he thought fiercely, _Not now._ He opened his eyes and dragged his mind back to the present.

Another shriek sliced through the air. It died away and there was silence. Then a man sitting near to him flung his plate onto the ground where it shattered with a crash. Every man in the courtyard flinched. Faramir crouched beside him and laid an arm across his shoulders without a word. The man started to shudder and Faramir rubbed the man's shoulder then gripped it firmly, offering comfort but also strength, steeling the man for the fight. After a short while Faramir spoke:

"Try to eat more now, Baranor. The enemy wants us to be weak; we defy him by remaining strong," he said firmly. He looked up and found Mablung hovering by him with a bowl of stew and bread. He took them with a smile of thanks and offered them to the soldier at his side who took the bowl with shaking hands but tried to eat. Mablung rolled his eyes. He went back to the cook to have another try at getting some food into Faramir. Faramir stood up. The men in the courtyard were silent and miserable; he looked round at them and smiled gently.

"As I said: Defy the nameless by eating your nuncheon!"

The joke was weak, but the absurdity made everyone laugh, even Baranor, and most managed to go back to their food. The cry of the Nazgûl came again, but this time it did not seem quite so bad, except to Faramir.

Mablung approached him again with another bowl of food.

"Captain, will you take your own advice?" Faramir thanked him absently but took the bowl and started to force down the food.

"Where is yours, Mablung?" he demanded suddenly.

"Just coming, Captain," he answered.

"Good," said Faramir. "You need to eat just as much as I do."

_I doubt it, _thought Mablung. _We will none of us get home without you to lead us.  
_ "Very good, Captain," he said, and went to get his own.

There was a shout from the walls of the fort and Faramir abandoned his stew and leaped up the steps to the rampart.

"A horseman is approaching from the city, lord," said the sentinel. Faramir looked out across the plain, then his eyes widened in surprise.

"The horseman is Mithrandir; admit him immediately he arrives," he said.  
Another cry from one of the Nazgûl echoed in the sky. Someone whimpered. Faramir looked down over his men. They were crouched or sitting, mostly, huddled wretchedly in silence, eyes on the ground. Some were trying still to eat.  
_  
__They need to sleep, _thought Faramir. _There is no space for even half of them under cover. I wonder whether Egalmoth managed to get any spare blankets out of Osgiliath. Beleg probably has them if there are any._

He sprang down the stairs and crossed over to the other fort where the wounded were being tended. The courtyard was being used for the less badly hurt, and there were men in groups and alone, with bandaged limbs; some had shocked or blank expressions while others lay with closed eyes and pale faces, their features shadowed with pain. Faramir nodded gravely to those who caught his eye as he passed, but he did not speak; he needed first to find Beleg.

The healer was by the bedside of a man whom Faramir could name but did not know well. He stood in the background for a few moments while Beleg finished talking to him and gave some instructions to one of his assistants, then Faramir moved forward and greeted him. He looked tired and tense as he led Faramir away to a small room where they could speak privately.

"How goes it, Beleg?" asked Faramir.

"There are a ninety-eight wounded who should live, thirty-five who will die, and a further twenty about whom I am not sure. But we managed to get all our charges out of Osgiliath, and all useful supplies, so it could be worse," he said.

"I am sorry to ask more of you, but when we are attacked I will need the courtyard clear to enable free access to the ramparts for the men who must fight. However bad the overcrowding becomes, the wounded must be kept within," said Faramir.  
"In addition," he continued, "have you spare blankets? The unhurt men are weary and cold and there is insufficient space for them to sleep indoors. If they have one each, I need about eight hundred blankets." The cry of a Ring-wraith reached them and Faramir closed his eyes momentarily; Beleg shivered.

"That should not be a problem; Egalmoth arranged for everything of that nature to be sent here yesterday," answered Beleg. Faramir nodded sadly.

"A good man; but he was slain as we left Osgiliath," he said. Beleg sighed.

"I had not heard; poor man," he said, and he shook his head and he wept.

"We have lost many good men; and I fear we will lose more before we get home," said Faramir. "I will send men for the blankets, and then I would visit as many of the wounded as time allows, by your leave. Are there any you would particularly like me to see?"

"None especially; I expect all would be pleased to see you," answered Beleg.

"Then I will return shortly if my other duties permit," he said.

Faramir left the courtyard and crossed over the road to the other fort.

Mablung came to him immediately with a sheaf of papers.

"There are seven hundred and forty-three men fit to fight, lord. I have the lists of names here if you want to see them," he said. Faramir grimaced as the import of the numbers registered in his mind.

"Then I have lost more than one in four," he said.

"Well, go with two score men to the leeches in the other fort to collect blankets for the living men. I cannot give them shelter from the elements but thanks to Egalmoth they can each have a blanket in which to sleep if these hell-hawks give us a moment's peace. There is no saying how long we will have; leave a dozen men on guard, but replace them after an hour so that every man gets at least some rest, if we are given so long as that. And get some rest yourself; you did not sleep last night," he continued.

There was the clatter of a horse's hooves on stone, and Gandalf rode into the courtyard. He slid down from Shadowfax's back and spoke to him softly. The horse neighed and walked towards the gate.

"Let him go; he goes merely to find grass and will return when I call him," said Gandalf to the guards on the gate.

He turned and greeted Faramir warmly. Faramir returned the greeting with a mixture of joy and anxiety, searching his face.

"Is all well in the city?" he asked.

"For the moment, yes. I come in response to your last dispatch; it seems that there is greater need of my help here than there," he said. Faramir bowed.

"Your counsel is most welcome, although time for speech is short," he said.

"I hope you may find my counsel of use, but I may be able to help in other ways also, if you wish," he said. Faramir looked at him speculatively.

"Forgive my question, for I know little of your powers, Mithrandir; how much could you do if I wished it?" asked Faramir. Gandalf smiled.

"I cannot win the battle for you single-handedly, hold Osgiliath, or ward off all attack, if that is what you mean, but I have some power against Ring-wraiths which can be used as it was two days ago; that might benefit you," he said. Faramir looked at him keenly.

"Can you keep them away so that my men can rest free from fear?" he asked. "That would be most valuable at present, for they are weary."

An alarm was sounded on the rampart, and a man ran to Faramir.

"Lord, they are crossing the causeway from Osgiliath," he said urgently.

"Your pardon, Mithrandir, I hope to speak again shortly," said Faramir and he raced up the steps to see the approaching force. Heavily-armed orcs bearing torches were moving swiftly towards them; the assault was beginning in earnest. He returned to the courtyard and ordered the defence. Two companies were to defend the gate across the road from each fort, while a third of the archers were stationed over the gate. Men piled stones on the road behind the gate to reinforce it against attack, wedging it closed and water was poured on it from above to protect against fire.

"Get the other half of the men under cover, even if they are overcrowded; there is not space for all to fight at once so for now half should rest. The men will change over in four hours, if all goes well. And send word to Beleg that we are under attack," he ended. Gandalf positioned himself over the gate.

"I will try to keep the field free of the Nazgûl at least, Faramir," he said.

"It is most appreciated," replied Faramir, looking out over the causeway. The orcs were approaching fast. He waited until they were easily within bow-shot then gave the signal to shoot. Volley after volley of arrows flew through the air, and the pile of dead grew ever larger. For now, they were getting no closer to the gate.

One of the Nazgûl in the air came closer, but white fire stabbed up towards it and it wheeled away with a cry of rage and fear.

The onslaught seemed endless. Runners brought more and more arrows to the archers, and still the enemy came on. After half an hour, Faramir changed the archers for those who were resting; his first company of archers was tiring.

Still the enemy came on. Their commander cared not at all how many died. He threw them ceaselessly at the gate, for the strength of Gondor must be broken; and they attacked as mindless slaves, heedless of peril.

A messenger came to Faramir:  
"Lord, the stocks of arrows are running low. Do you wish any to be kept?"

"Nay; here is where they will best be used. Send them until all reserves are spent," he said.

The lines of the city were now fading as night fell, and the frenzied yells of the orcs were becoming stronger and louder. They climbed now over mounds of the slain, but still they threw themselves at the gate.

Then the flights of arrows ceased. The archers slung their bows across their backs and there was a ring of steel as swords were drawn.

Now the orcs came with ladders, scaling the walls. Again and again they were pushed away from the walls with poles; orcs screaming as they fell from the toppling ladders. Again and again Faramir rallied his men, over the gate and in each fort as they struggled against the foe. Torches were placed in the sconces on the walls giving light in the deepening darkness, and still their enemy came on. Time after time they poured water over the gates to quench fires set near them while stones were dropped on orcs approaching the gates until they massed in huge piles in front of them, strewing the road and impeding all passage.

It became a battle of endurance which Faramir knew he would lose, sooner or later; for his men were being killed: but the ranks of the foe were endlessly replenished. Still they fought on through hour after hour of the black night. The men fighting were replaced by their better-rested companions, and they left the wall in weariness too great even to accept food before they lay near each other under blankets in the overcrowded halls of the fort, and slept. Too few short hours later they were roused, given food which they ate hurriedly before they returned to the battlement, re-entering the fray as their comrades came to the end of their duty.

Now their enemy carried torches as they approached in hordes, no longer fearing arrows from the battlement for they knew that none remained to the men of Gondor. They scaled the wall at the side of the causeway and streamed along the narrow edge of land between the Rammas Echor and the marsh meeting little resistance; for Faramir's men were too few and the Pelennor wall was unmanned.

_We can no longer hold them back. However fiercely we strive against them here, they will evade our resistance and soon they will break through, _thought Faramir. _The time draws near that we should retreat._

"Mablung," he said, "I leave you for a few minutes in command of the battlement, for I would go to Beleg to speak about the wounded. We will not remain here for much longer: some hours at most. We are being outflanked and soon it will be time to retreat." Mablung nodded.

"Very good, Captain," he replied.

Faramir crossed quickly to the fort where the wounded were being tended and leaped down the steps. He found Beleg and drew him aside. He spoke quietly and rapidly:

"Beleg, although we still hold the gate, orcs are now getting past us to the wall on either side and soon they will take it. If the wounded are to have any chance to live, they must be taken to Minas Tirith now. All the wains we have may be used, and I will send with you a dozen horsemen to guard you on the way, and Mithrandir if he will."  
"You should leave as soon as may be, and all the healers and their assistants should go with you, except one assistant who may stay to treat any man lightly wounded after you leave. He should be one willing to stay, for the retreat will be swift and perilous and any man unable to walk will most likely have to be left.  
"Those for whom there is no hope of life you must leave, for more heavily laden wains will be slower and less likely to make it home at all. Once you know who will have to be left behind, send word to me on the battlement and I will come if I can and speak to each man.  
"Forgive me, I have little time: is there anything you need to ask me?"

"Of the evacuation, no; but I can tell you now that twenty-six men will have to be left here. Would you see them straight away, lord?" asked Beleg.

"Have you swords here?" said Faramir.

"No, lord, not many. This _is_ the part set aside for the healers," he said acerbically. Faramir ignored the second half of the remark; for a healer to receive an order to abandon the wounded was a hard duty.

"Then I will have twenty-six swords sent here before I see them. They should have the opportunity to die with swords in their hands, even if they have no strength to hold them when the time comes; and lay those who will be left apart from the others who will be taken back to the city," he answered patiently.

"I must return now to the battlement; if I can be spared I will return here as soon as I can, but do not delay your departure because I am not come. Farewell!"

He went next to the armourers. He commanded the breaking of all spare arms that they should not fall into the hands of the enemy; except for twenty-six swords to be sent to where the wounded were being tended. The armourer took the order with quiet dismay; he knew what it meant.

"We must prepare now for retreat and it is better that our stores of arms should be broken than used in the service of our enemies," added Faramir.

Then Faramir returned to the wall. The fighting was heavy, but the men of Gondor seemed still to be holding their own.

"Mablung: how goes it?" asked Faramir, springing up beside him and looking out over the parapet towards the columns of orcs advancing steadily.

"As when you left, Captain," he answered. "They still assail the gate; we still hold them off, barely; they still come past us to parts of the Rammas Echor beyond our reach."

"'Tis only a matter of time now; we cannot hold the length of the wall and they will be attempting to scale it unmolested as we speak," said Faramir.  
"Post watchers at either side of the forts," he continued. "If any of the enemy is seen west of the wall we must leave at once or our escape-route will be cut. Send also a dozen men to make ready with horses to escort the wains bearing the wounded on their journey back to the city.

"After I have spoken with Mithrandir, I will leave you briefly once again to see those of the wounded who will not be able to go to Minas Tirith. I will return as soon as may be, but send word immediately if there are any signs that they are breaching the wall."

"Aye, Captain," said Mablung. "How many do you have to see, lord?" he added.

"Twenty-six," said Faramir. Mablung sighed, echoing the armourer's sorrow. There was nothing to say.

Next for Faramir to see was Gandalf. He was moving about the battlement, aiding where the fight was fiercest with staff in one hand and sword in the other. Every so often white fire leapt into the clouds where one of the Nazgûl had strayed within the wizard's reach.

Faramir spoke in greeting and laid a hand on Gandalf's arm; then jumped back rapidly as Gandalf whirled round with fire in his eyes and sword raised.

"I should not have startled you; my apologies," said Faramir briefly. "Soon it will be time to retreat; for orcs are already getting past us to parts of the wall that we cannot defend. I have ordered the departure of the wounded to Minas Tirith. A dozen horsemen will accompany them, but would you go with them? To have your strength guarding the wounded men would be most valuable. Also, there is but little time more here before we go and your counsel will be of great worth to Gondor over the coming while; I do not wish to risk you with the retreat. I would not have you lost unnecessarily, and our position here is perilous and can only become more so." Gandalf bowed.

"I will go with them, if that is your wish. But what of you? You too are needed, and your father wants you home, Faramir," he said gently. Faramir shook his head.

"Nay; I will stay to the end, that retreat should not become rout. I would not betray my men by abandoning them all to death simply because our position is fraught with danger, and in any case my father would not thank me for neglecting my duty; or for leaving half-undone the task he has set me. As he told us in council, much must be risked in war; and he knew the risks he ran when he sent us out to fight here.  
"But now I must go to speak to those of the wounded whom I shall not be sending to Minas Tirith. There is at least space for all those who may yet live, but twenty-six men will be abandoned; and they will make a bitter end," he said. Gandalf sighed.

"Yes, I expect they will. That knowledge is one of the burdens of command.  
"Let me bid you farewell now, lest I do not see you again before I leave. But guard your life well. There are many who wait with anxious hope for the news of your safe return," he said.

"Then may fate grant that their hopes may be realised," answered Faramir evenly, shying away from anything that would require him to examine his heart. It would be unwise, he thought, for him to dwell on Gandalf's statement too long. _Not now_, he thought to himself.  
"I would go now to the wounded. Farewell, Mithrandir. I am most grateful for all you have done," he said. They took leave of each other and both left the battlement, Gandalf to call Shadowfax and Faramir to the fort where the wounded were held.

As he entered the courtyard the first draught horses were already in harness and some of the wains were being backed slowly into place while others were already standing in the yard with wounded men on litters being loaded carefully into them. He went first to Beleg to make his presence known, and then was shown to where the dying men had been laid. He collected one of the swords that had been sent there.

Faramir knelt on the floor by a pallet. On it was one of the Ithilien rangers, whom Faramir knew quite well. He was lying with his eyes closed and his mouth half-open, his face pale in the dim light and gleaming with sweat while his breath came in short gasps. Faramir took his hand and he opened his eyes. With difficulty he focussed his gaze on Faramir's face; then he smiled faintly when he recognised the man at his bedside.  
"How are you, Eradan?" asked Faramir.  
"I have been better, Captain. Not long now though, I think," he said. Faramir nodded sadly.  
"Eradan, you have served nobly and all Gondor is in your debt. Yet now I must ask even more of you. Soon we shall retreat, with all possible speed, and I cannot take you with us, for if I do more men will die on the road. I am sorry; I would that it were not so," he said. Eradan's hand tightened on Faramir's.  
"Do not look so sorrowful, lord. To spend another man's life for one who is dying would be folly. I would say you judge well in this matter," he said. He paused for breath.  
"Where is my sword? I would die with my sword in my hand, and if they come here perhaps I can take another of them before I go," he said.  
"It is here," answered Faramir, guiding the man's other hand to the hilt of a sword which he laid unsheathed on the bed at his side. Eradan grasped it firmly and smiled, then his eyes drifted closed.  
"Forgive me, Eradan, I must go, for time is short. It may be that I too meet death this day, but I will remember your sacrifice for as long as I live," he said.  
"Time is short indeed. Farewell, Captain!" said Eradan, his eyes flickering open.  
"Farewell, Eradan!" said Faramir and he kissed his forehead. Then he laid Eradan's hand back on his breast and left to go to the bedside of the next man.

To soldier after soldier he brought the news. Their courage did not surprise him, but it did move him; and his heart was filled with love and pity for these brave men, his men. _May it be granted that _w_hen I face death I may act with such valour as do these proud men now! _he thought. To each man he brought a sword, although some now lacked the ability to grip it.

He returned to the wall by way of the courtyard which was now crowded with wains and horses. He gave orders for the train to leave as soon as it was ready, and in about an hour the line of wains made its way slowly out of the fort gate onto the road and set off towards the city with its small escort of horsemen.

Faramir and Mablung fought on against their tireless foe, hour after hour. Any wounded went now to the one remaining healer's assistant to have their hurts bound, and those that could still walk were sent back towards the city, each man with a friend taken from the unhurt men to guard and guide him, leaving whenever a group of six had formed.

_When will it be that Anor rises to look down on us again? _wondered Faramir. _And will we know if she does under this brown murk?_ Time passed, and the night seemed to become darker still; while orcs continued to attack without ceasing.

"Mablung," said Faramir, as the men were changing duty, "go and take some rest and food. You have been fighting for hours now. If there is no change here you will take four hours, although I may call you sooner." Mablung hesitated. _And what about you, Captain? When did you last eat or sleep? _he thought.

"I command it," added Faramir. Mablung saluted and made his way down from the battlement. He curled himself in a blanket alongside the other weary men who had just come off duty; and was asleep in an instant.

Again and again Faramir rallied the defenders against the seemingly un-ending assault. The ranks of his men were thinning now enough that the losses were noticeable, but they were still strong enough to resist. Hours passed as they fought on, until finally the eastern sky started to lighten a little and as it did so the attack seemed to ease in ferocity, although more and more orcs were passing each side and fading into the darkness.

Suddenly there was a bright red flash about a mile to the north followed by a loud rumble. The soldiers of Gondor turned to look in dismay. Then came more, from north and south along the wall in both directions.  
"So! They have blasting powder and are breaching the wall beyond us," said Faramir. He called a messenger.

"Rouse all commanders: they are called to council on the battlement," he said.

In the wake of the explosions the assault on the forts lessened and then ceased. Orcs continued to pass in large companies but now ignored entirely the road and the gate which was held against them. The walls of the causeway still impeded them, but once ramps were brought to place over the walls they had barely to slow down to cross them; and then the enemy troops streamed left and right along the Rammas Echor away from the road.

By the time the commanders had assembled a few minutes later the gate seemed to be ignored.  
"It is time to go, before we are out-flanked," he said to them. "If we stay they will no doubt encircle and slay us when it amuses them to do so, but they are now through the wall and we can hold them back no longer. It is fortunate that they have decided to leave us alone for the present, since we have a brief moment of peace to order our retreat."  
"The men will march together in one block. The non-fighting men should be placed in the middle and also the less experienced or any who are particularly weary; while the most seasoned troops should be at the edges, although I hope that the fighting will be confined to the rearguard. It will be formed of the ninety horsemen we have still, and its task will be to hold off the foe. If we stay together, we may get home. I will lead the rearguard, and will see to its ordering."  
"You will lead the main body of men, Mablung, and will take overall command if I fall. Carry two red lanterns at the front and at the rear while the night persists. We will be more exposed with light; but the risk of becoming separated in the darkness would otherwise be too great. For now we will keep to the road lest we wander vainly, lost in the dark, but we must always have scouts before us for we can no longer tell what may be lying in wait ahead. If it becomes lighter so we can see our beautiful city, then maybe it will be better to move away from the road, but that decision will be taken as the situation arises.  
"Before we go, all men are to fill their bottles with watered wine, and let each man have with him rations of bread and cheese and oiled raisins and any other such food as the cooks have that can be eaten on the march. I expect that we shall not pause to rest until we make it home.  
"Any remaining maps and papers must be burned; we can neither leave them nor risk taking them and having them come to the enemy should we fall.  
"It seems we have been given respite which may allow us to make our preparations undisturbed and depart in secret. We will leave at the latest in half an hour; if it can be less, so much the better. All preparations must be made with the least possible noise; we do not wish to announce our departure while it can still be hidden.  
"Does anyone have a question?" He looked round the group of grim and resolute faces; no-one spoke. "Then let us make ready to depart."


	4. Retreat

Faramir pulled his sword free of the dead body of the last of the group of orcs, its torch guttering on the ground near those of its fellows. He rested his sword against his thigh and calmed his horse, allowing it to step backwards nearer to home. As it did so he lifted his horn to his lips and gave the signal for the rearguard to re-group.

"To me, Knights of Gondor!" he called.  
"Keep good heart! There is but little more to do; we are nearly home," he added more quietly, once they were near enough to hear him, forcing a smile for the benefit of his few remaining men, whose weariness and tension showed clearly. He gathered them together and they galloped a short way towards the city until they were close behind the main body of marching men. They halted; and turned back to face the advancing foe and Faramir strained into the gloom. _Another charge will break us, unless my father has planned a sortie to help us in,_ he thought grimly. His head swam; the blood pounded in his ears. He felt hotter than he had thought possible and more thirsty than he had ever known, but he shivered. _How can I be so hot and so cold at once?_ he wondered vaguely. He tried to swallow but his throat was dry and painful. His limbs felt heavy and slow, and his body ached everywhere. His horse moved again and he swayed. His eyes stung as he blinked the sweat out of them and looked briefly at the city. _Two furlongs more and we will be home, _he thought.

Then another attack started, dimly visible through the fog, approaching swiftly in silence, some mounted and some on foot, saving their fierce cries until the last moment to give the men of Gondor the least possible warning. He shouted an alarm to his men and they braced themselves for the fight as cries rang out from their foes. _Here they come …._ thought Faramir.

He raised his sword again with an effort as a leader approached on horseback through the gloom. _Larger than most. Looks a very capable warrior. One for me to deal with, _he thought, assessing his foe as he turned to intercept him. They paused, each looking for an opening and not finding one.  
There was a long shrieking cry, gradually coming closer and louder as a Ring-wraith approached. Faramir's blood ran cold. The Southron in front of him blanched, but each kept their concentration on the other. Then the enemy champion urged on his horse and with a loud cry launched his attack. Faramir parried the blow as his horse side-stepped; but he was too slow in his counter-attack. He let his foe pass and wheeled about to confront him again. The champion turned back to Faramir, aware that the way was not yet open to the foot soldiers he wanted to cut down. They circled each other warily, each turning to put his back towards his own lines. _They are getting past me, _Faramir thought grimly,_ but there is nothing I can do about it until I have dealt with this one. We are too few now to hold them off!_

Suddenly there was another shriek, much closer. The air was filled with a cold stench of corruption and death. Faramir's next breath felt like ice; lifeless cold filling his breast and freezing his heart. There was a roaring in his ears and a black curtain started to spread across his sight; he felt the cold seeping through his body like a miasma.  
His enemy's eyes gleamed as he spurred his mount forward to attack his weakened adversary. His sight returned, dimly, and he saw as through a haze the approaching foe. He raised his sword, but it felt like lead in his hand as he fought to keep his eyes open. A dark tide of terror rose up in him; he forced it down. He gasped for breath, but with each breath he took in more of the cold which froze his blood and paralysed his limbs. Suddenly a heavy blow struck his side and after it he felt a sharp pain. He did not compensate fast enough and lost his balance; but it saved his life for his enemy's sword sliced through the air where he had been. As he fell he heard a trumpet call from the city:  
"Charge! Charge!"  
_I am sorry, father, I can't, _he thought in confusion. He hit the ground with a crash and more pain. A horse screamed.  
Then there was a cry of many voices:  
"Amroth for Gondor!"  
_Imrahil! _ he thought with sudden relief. _Now the men have the best hope there can be:_ _Imrahil can take them home. _There was another cry:  
"Amroth to Faramir!"  
He was vaguely aware of a horse near him, a shadow above him with sword raised. The stench still hung in the air. Then the light was blocked out by a darker shadow and with the darkness came fear. He screamed in defiance, but no sound passed his lips. He made a last effort to roll away from the falling blade, but his limbs would not obey him; he did not move. Then the world went black and he knew no more.

The blow aimed at Faramir fell wildly as the Southron champion saw one of the knights of Gondor bearing down on him and realised that he would pay with his life if he delayed to make sure of the man on the ground below him. He turned east and spurred his horse to flight.

* * *

Denethor gazed out intently over the fields._ When will he come? Will he yet come? O Faramir, have a care for yourself! Come home safe to me! I was angry and frustrated in the council meeting, but you know that I love you, do you not? Even if your deeds bring us all to ruin, still I love you, my son: how could I not? O come home safe to me, Faramir!_

Through the murk came a large band of men, marching steadily, homeward bound. Denethor's heart leapt with fear and pride, and savage exultation. _See, Grey Fool: my son has held his men together. You doubted him? Is he stronger than you thought – not as easily overcome as you had expected? You think to rule all through him, but it is his father's command he follows. You said he would need help, and help I had prepared for him ere ever you spoke of it, and a chance of glory to enhearten Imrahil's men and those who see their magnificence, but mayhap he will not need it. Did you think I was intending to send him to his death?_  
A small band of horsemen appeared behind the marching men, then turned, pausing, to hold off the foe. Denethor waited in suspense. _Come home, Faramir! Return to your city, return to your father! O Faramir, my son, come home to me!_

* * *

Prince Imrahil walked slowly up and down the lines of his knights, his mount shaking its head occasionally in impatience. He talked, encouraged, calmed and distracted as called for. The waiting was the worst part, drawn up outside the walls near the gate, ready on command to cover Faramir's retreat as soon as he was close enough and had need. Denethor had calculated the earliest possible time that Faramir could return, then asked Imrahil to be ready two hours before to be certain that the retreat would have the cover it might need. And for four hours they had waited, straining into the gloom, willing the fog to disperse to no avail. Straggling groups of men had come, weary and fearful, some wounded, but few, very few. Always they said: _Faramir is coming behind_, but he did not come, and the cavalry of Gondor waited. Gandalf joined them, and waited, as columns of fire came closer and closer.

They heard shouts from the gate towers – a large body of men was seen, marching, still holding together – Faramir's men! Soon they could see them themselves a little less than a mile away, marching steadily home. There were horsemen suddenly galloping up behind them, but not to attack for they turned back towards the foe to fend off any assault. _The rearguard, but there is little left of it,_ thought Imrahil. _Where are you, Faramir lad?_ He scanned the troops anxiously and picked out a familiar figure in bright armour._ There. In command of the rearguard himself – where else would I expect to find him?_ he thought with a smile. He watched with affection and admiration Faramir's calm demeanour which steadied and sustained all under him. He raised his voice to his men. "Any time now, be ready!"

Suddenly, out of the stifling fog came fierce cries and frenzied attack as men and orcs poured onto the men of Gondor, from behind, from the sides, numberless foes overwhelming them. Then came the Nazgûl, stooping from the sky, their cries instilling terror into the hearts of all who heard. Imrahil watched in dismay as three together assailed Faramir; then the men of Gondor broke and fled wildly. In the confusion Faramir was lost to Imrahil's view. _His men say he bears a charmed life. May they be proved right, _thought Imrahil, then: _ Come on, Denethor! Give the signal, or we will be too late!_

Finally the trumpet call came. "Charge!" repeated Prince Imrahil and with a ferocious roar they threw themselves at the enemy, not even the Nazgûl impeding their defence of their kin. Imrahil's force of knights split into two, one company each side of the fleeing men, to attack the enemy forces at either hand. At the last moment the Haradrim noticed the charge and started to fall back, but too late; and the wrath of the knights of Gondor fell upon them. And the men of the retreat saw the onslaught of Gondor, gained new heart and turned back to victory.

From the citadel behind them the trumpets rang out clearly, repeatedly:  
'Retreat!… Retreat!'  
The pursuit of their fleeing enemies ceased and the knights of Dol Amroth fell back and formed a screen, two deep, facing the river and the impending onslaught. They paused, breathing heavily, as the companies of infantry behind them re-formed rank and file. No foes were visible now in the murk that covered the plain. Calls and commands filled the air as the commanders of each group of soldiers accounted for each of their men. The milling crowd resolved into discrete blocks of men with space between them as order was restored.  
As the formations drew up, the scattered rearguard drew back together, but there was no voice of command calling, checking, accounting for each man. "Where is the Captain?" one asked another, each thinking he was in the wrong place. They all drew together, the only men leaderless, looking round, but the familiar figure they all sought was nowhere to be seen.  
One of the older men spoke, urgently:  
"We must stop moving and form up. The Captain put Mablung leading the companies. Ecthelion, go and tell him that we have not found the Lord Faramir. Keep your voice low. It would not do to start a panic." He raised his voice, so all could hear, and gave the orders to put the small remains of the rearguard back into formation. One horseman rode off to the front of the column where another was overseeing the companies in the gloom.  
He saluted the commander.  
"Sir, the Captain, Lord Faramir is missing from the rearguard," he said. Mablung's eyes widened in consternation then closed momentarily. A thought flashed across his mind: _Say not so! _then: _Would it be worse to hear that he is dead or that he is made captive?_ Suddenly he felt sick. Then he decided not to think about it.  
"Take five men from the rearguard, inform the Prince Imrahil, then start to search for him this side of the screen, but the prince may take over the search himself – you and the other five searchers from the rearguard are under his command if he does. Have you a replacement commander?" he said.  
"Yes, we have Mardil," answered the horseman.  
"Good. Tell him he commands the rearguard until such time as he is relieved by the Captain or by me. Inform me as soon as the Captain is found. In the meantime, do not let the news that he is missing be generally known." he added. Ecthelion saluted and turned back to his company, worry settling into dread in his heart. He gave the messages to Mardil, then turned towards the line of Dol Amroth with his companions.

A few minutes after they halted Prince Imrahil looked over his shoulder to survey the retreat. Order was returning to the infantrymen, but the rearguard seemed still to be in disarray. _Where is my nephew?_ he thought, _I would expect him to have come to speak to me by now._ Then a picture came into his mind, glimpsed in the dim light, of a lone horseman, standing when all others broke, holding back a champion of Harad, a huge warrior on horseback. In their final approach he had seen, out of the corner of his eye, the horseman of Gondor fall from his horse, seen the horse scream in terror and flee even as the Nazgûl had wheeled away from the fight, pursued by Mithrandir on his magnificent stallion of Rohan. Imrahil had roared with ferocity as he fell on the enemy who gave way before them, while the once-brave Southron champion hesitated a moment, then turned and was borne away eastward as fast as his horse could carry him. The prince had swept past the position of the man of Gondor whom he had seen fall, but suddenly in his mind's eye he saw the man with sickening clarity._Was that man Faramir?_ He turned in alarm, and saw six men with anxious and weary faces riding towards him._ It was him. We have lost Faramir! Where did he fall?_ He surveyed the field around him, looking for landmarks, wondering if he knew where it was that he had last seen his nephew.

The horsemen of Gondor rode up to Prince Imrahil.  
"Lord Prince, the Captain Lord Faramir is missing," they said. Imrahil nodded. His face was grim and set.  
"I will lead the search for him. I saw a man fall from his horse as we came upon you. We will start the search there," he answered. He called for another four men to follow him, and left the line of Dol Amroth, searching where he thought he had been. They spread out to cover more ground, but could not separate far in the fume that covered the land.

There was a shout to Imrahil's left. He at once followed the voice to its source, and saw the body of a man of Gondor sprawled on its side in a hollow in the ground, a blood-stained sword lying near the outstretched right arm. As he came closer he saw an arrow shaft protruding from the side of the man's chest, having pierced his armour. Fear grew in his heart he recognised the bright and glorious armour in which he had watched his nephew leave Minas Tirith two days before, now disfigured by mud and dust and blood but undoubtably Faramir's.

As he came up to the body on the ground Imrahil hurriedly dismounted, throwing his reins to his standard bearer, and knelt beside the crumpled figure. He turned the man onto his back, but his limbs fell lifelessly, and he made no sound.  
"Faramir? Faramir lad?" he called. There was no reply. Imrahil worked quickly at the buckle securing the helmet. He laid the helmet to one side, took Faramir's hand and touched his face. _He draws breath still,_ thought Imrahil with sudden relief.  
"Faramir? Faramir lad?" he called urgently. "Faramir, open your eyes! Come on lad, show me you're still with me." He clasped Faramir's hand more firmly.  
"Can you press my hand?" he asked. There was no response, and Imrahil's fear grew. Faramir's eyes stayed closed, his face pale, his hair soaked with sweat, his breathing deep but far too rapid.  
"Faramir lad, tell me where you are hurt." _Even if that arrow is in your lung, you shouldn't be in this state yet. You were hit only a few minutes ago, _he thought. "Tell me what's wrong, lad." He removed his gauntlets and worked fast, searching his nephew's head and limbs and trunk for injuries, but found none beyond the obvious arrow, to which he now turned his attention. It had pierced both breastplate and hauberk, but near the side. He looked again at Faramir's face, and laid a hand on his brow._Faramir, you are fevered! What is wrong?  
"_Was he well this morning?" he asked sharply, looking up at those of Faramir's men now surrounding them.  
"Yes, I think so, lord," answered one of the soldiers, sounding puzzled and anxious. _Then the arrow is poisoned,_ thought Imrahil, with rising dread. _O Faramir! Are we to lose you to a dart from the air? To the poison of those foul servants of the dark lord?  
_ "Then the wound is poisoned, for he has a fever. It is best to draw the dart forth here, to take the poison from his body as soon as may be."

There were gasps of dismay from the soldiers who had formed a silent ring round their stricken captain. Imrahil looked up to see anxious faces looking down at him, some with tears in their eyes. He sought out the oldest face among those of Faramir's men who had been searching for him. "You will hold his shoulders," he said. "He must stay still while I draw forth the arrow." He turned to another man. "Go to my standard bearer and ask him for the cloths from my saddle-bag and bring them to me. Tell him also to get hold of a spare bridle for the ride back to the city.  
"I want also three cloaks for him, and another two men to hold his legs."  
Immediately the men round him moved forward. Imrahil turned his attention back to Faramir, stroking his face as he addressed his wounded and unconscious nephew:  
"Faramir, you have been hit by a dart, and I need to draw forth the shaft. I have asked your men to help you stay still while I do so. I am sorry: I am going to cause you pain." There was still no sign that Faramir had heard, and Imrahil sighed. He unbuckled the lower straps of Faramir's breastplate, and crossed Faramir's arms on his breast, each hand over the opposite shoulder, then wrapped a folded cloak firmly round his shoulders to hold his arms in place. He undid the belt over Faramir's hauberk and pulled the mail up to his waist. The prince wrapped another cloak round his hips and legs, both for warmth and to make him easier to restrain, then he rolled Faramir to lie on his side, with the third cloak pillowing his head. The man brought the cloths from Imrahil's saddle-bag and at a sign from Imrahil the men who were to hold Faramir still moved into place.  
"Faramir, I shall start now, but I will be as quick as I can," he said. Imrahil reached up under the mail-coat with a cloth wrapped round his fingers, feeling for the arrow-head. To his relief he found it embedded in the padding at the back under Faramir's mail, and grasped it between two fingers through the cloth in his hand. With a gentle tug on the shaft with his other hand, the head and shaft of the arrow separated. Faramir groaned. Imrahil removed the arrowhead from Faramir's clothes, and pushed thick pads under his armour ready to staunch the bleeding when the shaft was withdrawn. With a smooth rapid movement he withdrew the shaft and cast it away behind him. Faramir's face contorted in pain and he cried out. Imrahil pressed firmly against the wound as he caressed his nephew's cheek.  
"There now lad, it's all done. Let's get you home," he said. He re-tightened the straps of Faramir's breastplate to hold the pads in place, then replaced Faramir's belt and helmet.  
He stood up.  
"I will bear him with me on my horse. Lift him up to me when I have mounted."

Imrahil swung himself up into the saddle, and four men lifted Faramir high. With the bridle of a dead horse, the prince secured the limp body against his own and settled it into his arms.  
"Who is his second-in-command?" he asked.  
"Mablung, lord."  
"Where may he be found?"  
"At the head of the column, lord."  
"Send him to me."

In the few minutes of the Prince's absence, many of the men had realised that something was wrong. They looked fearfully as Ecthelion returned to Mablung at the head of the column. Ecthelion saluted and looked straight at Mablung. "We have him; the Prince bears him, and wishes to speak with you," he said quietly.  
"How is he?"  
"As yet he lives."  
Mablung took a deep breath and turned his horse towards the screen of knights.

Imrahil looked around him. Companies had reformed and order was being restored behind the screen of cavalry. They were nearly ready to move off.  
A man rode up to him, with distress in his face. But he saluted smartly, and his voice was steady. "Mablung, reporting, lord."  
"Mablung, your Captain is wounded, as you see. I will take the command of the rearguard, but the infantry are under your command until you are relieved.  
"It might also be wise to make some announcement to the men. Some of them know already, but truth is better than rumour."  
"Yes, lord." Mablung hesitated. "Lord Prince," he asked quietly, "Is the Captain wounded to the death?"  
"I hope not," replied Imrahil, but his face was bleak.  
Mablung looked at Faramir as he lay senseless in his uncle's arms. His face was obscured by his helmet and Mablung could not see it clearly. _Hold onto life, Captain! We need you!_ he thought. He swallowed hard. Suddenly he found he had to clench his teeth very tightly to be able to keep from weeping. Then he released his breath; and cleared his throat. He took his leave of Imrahil and returned to the head of the column. When all was ready, he turned towards the worried faces of the soldiers.  
"Men of Gondor! The Captain is hurt, but he is bringing us home. Let's make him proud, all the way!" There was a cheer, and with heads held high and proud steps the out-companies marched back the last quarter mile to their beleaguered city. They were followed by the swan-knights, then by Prince Imrahil who watched the returning men. He tightened his grip round Faramir and spoke to him, but with little expectation of being heard.  
"Faramir, you deserve the greatest honour Gondor can give for your deeds over the last two days. There is none I know who could have done the like," he said._ And may your father realise it, and you live to know our praise,_ he thought grimly.


	5. Homecoming

Inside the main gate Imrahil passed Faramir's body down to the waiting arms of the guard then dismounted. A litter was brought for him, and Prince Imrahil walked at his side as he was borne up the winding road.

"Is the Lord Faramir to be taken to the Houses of Healing?" asked the chief of the bearers.  
"Not yet," answered the prince. "I do not know how long he has, and his father should see him first."  
"Lead us to the steward," he commanded briefly as they passed the citadel gate; then followed the servant into the halls.

Denethor looked at Faramir's face, then at Imrahil's. In a quiet voice he commanded the servants to make a bed there for Faramir, then he turned and left the room without another word.

Prince Imrahil waited as a bed was made in front of him. When all was ready Faramir was lifted gently and laid on the towels that covered the blankets; and his uncle started to strip him of his armour.

"Bring cloths and bandages, water to bathe him, a brazier, and clean garments; soft and warm, but that will be easy to remove when necessary," he ordered. "He must be kept warm; he has a fever."

The servants moved about, quietly and quickly performing their tasks. Imrahil was on the point of summoning one to help him with Faramir's armour when he saw Denethor's Halfling standing in the livery of the tower, apparently without duties.

"Are you serving as the Lord Denethor's esquire?" he asked.  
"Yes, lord," said Pippin.  
"Then come and help me with the Lord Faramir's armour," said Imrahil. They removed first the damaged breast plate; then the hauberk with blood clotted through the links.

As an esquire the Halfling was of little use, Imrahil thought. He had to point out the various fastenings and the order in which the pieces of armour should come off; but Pippin could not lift Faramir, and struggled with the weight of some of the armour, so had to do much of the unfastening of buckles and laces while Imrahil gingerly moved his nephew, aware of the risk of worsening hidden and neglected injuries.

The padding beneath Faramir's armour was soaked with sweat. Imrahil took a small knife from his belt and started to cut away Faramir's rent and blood-stained clothing. The dressings he had applied on the Pelennor fell off; but he left the wound alone for the moment, since it was no longer bleeding, as he stripped off the rest of the heavy padded tunic and the torn shirt. He half-expected to find another wound festering under his clothes which might explain Faramir's desperate state; but none was revealed. Pippin was sent for a fur blanket and Imrahil draped it across Faramir's shoulders while he removed the rest of his clothes. As before, there were no obvious injuries, and Imrahil covered him with another blanket.

"Is the water to bathe him ready?" asked Imrahil.  
"It will be here soon, lord," answered one of the servants. Imrahil turned back to Faramir and started to search his body carefully for any further hurts. He pressed his hands all over him, moved his limbs and turned him. But there were no signs of injury to his head; no wounds on his limbs; his breast and his back were unmarked; his belly was soft and unharmed. The only thing wrong seemed to be the arrow-wound in his side. _ This is a very potent poison, _he thought with disquiet, looking at his nephew's pallid, senseless face, _to make him so sick, so fast. Whence comes it? It is unlike any I have ever seen before._

A servant came to him bearing a large ewer of hot water. He poured some into a basin and stood by Prince Imrahil.  
"Hold the basin near for me," he ordered, "and two more of you: come and be ready to bathe him once I have tended his wound. Bring me cloths to clean the wound, and have dressings for it to hand," he said.

Imrahil examined the wound, gently washing away the grime and dried blood around it. _It does not look deep,_ he thought. He called for another cloth and clean water and moved on to the wound itself. He found to his surprise that the arrow had cut a long shallow gash in Faramir's side, but had not pierced his chest. _This should not be a mortal wound, _he thought. _This is not even a serious wound._ He paused and looked at Faramir's face then he sighed. _But what matters it that the wound is slight, if you die from the poison?  
Was that dart from the Nazgûl?_ he wondered. _We know naught of their weapons other than fear. _He shuddered at the memory of what he had seen of the attacks on Faramir and the fear that the Nazgûl had inspired in him, even from a distance. _This is the fastest-acting poison I have ever seen, and the most potent. But if there is any poison still left in the wound it can yet be washed away, and that might help. If so, there is no time to lose._ He came to a decision.

"Lay a blanket on the litter on which he was brought here," said Imrahil. "I must clean the wound further with him there. Bring me more clean water, another cloth, oil and more towels, and three of you: help me to move him."

They lifted Faramir carefully back onto the litter. Imrahil laid Faramir on his side with his arms up high, bent in front of his face, and tucked another blanket round his chest and arms. Then he touched his nephew's cheek and spoke to him:  
"Faramir," he said, "I need to clean the poison from your wound. It will hurt; but you are a brave lad and it may save your life." There was no sign that Faramir had heard.

Imrahil turned to the servants. "I want one of you at his shoulders and another at his knees. It does not matter if he moves a bit, but he must stay on his side as he is now and his arms must stay behind me."

Next Imrahil turned to Pippin:  
"Does the Lord Faramir know you?" he asked.  
"Only slightly, lord," answered Pippin nervously. "I have been in his presence three or four times, but he has hardly spoken to me at all."  
"It will have to do," said Imrahil. "You must help while I am cleaning his wound. Come and hold his hands. He may not hear you, but I want you to talk to him constantly and try to distract him."

He sat on the edge of the litter with Faramir's arms against his back. A basin was placed under the litter, and Imrahil tucked a towel against his lap to keep the worst of the water away from his legs. "Faramir lad," he said, "I will start now. It will hurt, but it should not take too long." Faramir did not answer; Imrahil had not expected him to, but Pippin blenched.

Imrahil turned his attention back to the wound. He pulled apart the raw surfaces and scrubbed them firmly with rough, dry towelling to increase the bleeding and let any remaining poison in the wound be soaked up by the cloth. Faramir's body curled, trying in vain to protect itself; his elbows pressed hard through the blankets against his uncle's armoured back, and he groaned. Pippin's chatter was interrupted and he grimaced then gasped as Faramir's hands gripped harder on his. Imrahil continued unmoved, calmly pouring the warm water into the wound. The servants changed the towels and emptied the basin beneath the litter and then he repeated the procedure twice more. Lastly he uncorked a small bottle and poured oil into the wound, wiping it away with another cloth in the hope of removing any traces of poison not washed away by the water.

"Now bring me dry cloths and bandages," said Imrahil. He was satisfied that he had done as much as was possible to clean any remaining poison from the wound. He pressed a pad of soft cloth against it to staunch the renewed bleeding while with his other hand he rubbed Faramir's back, talking to him and trying to give comfort after inflicting such pain. But Faramir had lapsed back into a deep swoon.

Once the bleeding had stopped, they lifted Faramir off the soaked litter and back onto clean towels on the bed. The prince eased him onto his back then with help lifted him up to rest against him as he bound a clean pad of cloth in place. Faramir's head lolled against the Prince's neck, his breath hot against Imrahil's skin. _Small wonder you sleep after all that, my poor lad,_ he thought,_but I would that you could sleep in peace, not in the troubled dreams of a poisoned fever._

He laid him gently back onto the bed then covered him again with blankets. The pulse in his nephew's neck was far too fast; his breathing rapid and laboured. _You are not going to get through this, are you, lad? _he thought suddenly_. I wonder how long it will be until the end. O Faramir!_

He spoke to the servants standing by:  
"Bathe him now; then dress him warmly and lay him between the sheets, but take care that his body is kept warm while he is washed. And treat him gently," he said.

The servants exchanged fearful glances and did not move until the oldest knelt before Imrahil with his head bowed.  
"I ask your pardon, lord prince: None of us knows how to bathe him; and I fear we may hurt him," he said in a voice that trembled. Imrahil's brows drew together.  
"Have you never before washed a wounded man?" he asked sternly.  
"No, lord prince. The… the women have gone away, lord, and, we… they… the wounded are normally tended in the Houses of Healing, lord, and if ever Lord Faramir or Lord Boromir was hurt or sick, each looked after the other, lord prince, or the leeches came," stammered the man.

The Prince of Dol Amroth looked down in his magnificence on the unfortunate servant who trembled before him, but his answer surprised the man in its gentleness:  
"Then I will wash him and you will assist me, so that you know how I wish it to be done; for it may again be your part to bathe him while he is sick. Bring me cloths, water, soap and towels," said the prince.

He wrung out a cloth wetted in hot water then cleaned his nephew's face and neck, carefully wiping away the streaks of dirt where trickling sweat had cut through the dust. Without the dirt Faramir's face looked even paler, and still he seemed entirely unaware of those around him. Imrahil pulled back the blankets and washed Faramir's body gently and thoroughly, drying each part as he went and covering him with clean towels and blankets lest he should get cold. As he went on he talked, at times to Faramir to comfort him, at times to the servants, when he wished to make clear a particular point.

At length Faramir's body was clean and dry. He lay wrapped in towels and blankets.  
"Have you ever before dressed a man in a swoon?" Imrahil asked the servant who had been helping him.  
"No, lord prince," he answered, shamefaced.  
"Then bring me the garments you have for him," said Imrahil patiently. He directed and helped as necessary and soon Faramir was dressed in warm, comfortable clothes and lying in the bed under thick coverlets. Imrahil dismissed the servants and tucked the covers gently round his sick nephew. He called to Pippin:  
"Master Halfling: you will watch here with Lord Faramir unless the Lord of the City commands you otherwise. I cannot stay; and the lord steward has many duties in addition to those to his son so may not be able to spend more than a little time at his side." He paused.  
"I hope it will not come to this, but if it should seem that the Lord Faramir is about to die, I would ask that you hold his hand; it may ease his passing a little. Also, if there is time send word to his father but it is likely that he will not be able to come," he said.  
"Do not fear," he added gently, observing Pippin's face. "You love the Lord Faramir, do you not?"  
"Yes, lord," answered Pippin.  
"Then if he may die in peace with one who loves him at his side, he will have an easier passing and more comfort than many who must die over the next few days."  
He turned a sad gaze back to Faramir and prepared to make his farewell.

Then Denethor re-entered the room. Imrahil looked up and stared at him in shock. _He looks worse than his son, _he thought. He crossed the room and spoke to Denethor in a low voice. "I have drawn forth the dart that struck him, and cleaned and bound the wound. It is in his side, and although not deep or vital, I fear it is poisoned. I know not what will come to pass, but he has a fever; and he is very sick."

Denethor did not reply; and Imrahil sighed with compassion. He returned to Faramir's bedside and spoke softly:  
"Faramir, you are home now and your father is here, but I must go to see to the men. I will come again later if I can. Farewell, my nephew!" he said. He bent to kiss Faramir's brow, then turned away.

Denethor sat silently by his son's bed, taking his hand. Imrahil laid a hand briefly on Denethor's shoulder, then went out.  
The day passed to dusk; then darkened into night. Denethor sat still by his son_._

* * *

Author's note:

For any who are interested, this is the rationale behind who-does-what in relation to Faramir's wounding.  
Imrahil, who brought Faramir home in his arms (in the position of honour in the parade and eschewing all glory himself in favour of letting Faramir be the centre of attention), clearly has considerable practical medical skill. He removed the arrow, probably in the field since it was not kept and could not be got hold of for Aragorn, which is a difficult and potentially dangerous procedure even if you know what you are doing. It seems odd that he should attempt it when the very skilled healers in Minas Tirith are so close by unless there is great urgency. Presumably he thinks immediately of poison, because Faramir is unconscious. He will not, I think, have stripped Faramir completely on the Pelennor - it would take too long, armour is expensive and must not be abandoned for reasons of honour, and Faramir could not, with dignity, have been carried through the city half-dressed. In addition, his armour is needed to keep him safe. Someone important enough to be carried home wounded in the arms of the Prince of Dol Amroth is a tempting target for any Southron archer, who might well think that if he missed he would hit the Prince so it would certainly be worth a try!  
Yet Imrahil, who is so busy later that he does not hear even that Denethor is dead, can speak with authority to Aragorn about the trivial nature of Faramir's wound. How does he know? - presumably because he stripped and examined Faramir completely in the citadel. Why not leave him in the Houses of Healing for the doctors to deal with? - because of fears that Faramir will die before Denethor sees him, and then not wishing to delay because of poison. Faramir is evidently dressed when in bed, since his garments are soaked in oil later when Denethor tries to burn him. Imrahil also staunched the wound, he tells Aragorn.  
Denethor knows of the theory of poison, since he speaks of it to Pippin, but the theory did not come from the healers since Pippin thinks Faramir's medical care has been seriously deficient ("Quite likely he needs medicine more than tears." from 'The Pyre of Denethor' in ROTK) and I conclude that the healers probably did not see him at all initially. So perhaps Imrahil told Denethor about the poison, but since the servants left, we are told, before Denethor got back, why did Imrahil stay so long?  
It seems to me likely that since Faramir had been stripped and had his wound dressed and then been re-clothed, he would have been washed in between. Yet however fond Imrahil might have been of Faramir, surely the senior military commander under the steward would have had more urgent things to do than bathe his nephew when it could be done by a servant? - so it could be that there was no suitably skilled servant around to do it.  
Also, I think Imrahil is very fond of Denethor. When he does hear of Denethor's death, he immediately couples together Denethor's and Theoden's deaths as a heavy price to pay for victory. Likening Theoden's death in battle defending his ally to Denethor's suicide could be taken as a serious insult by Eomer who is standing at his side at the time. It does of course depend a bit on how Gandalf phrased it, which we are not told so we don't know whether the news came out as: "He tried to murder Faramir then committed suicide when I stopped him," or: "Sauron drove him mad so the poor man had no idea what he was doing." But Imrahil seems surprisingly forgiving of Denethor, given that he gave no signs at all of repentance, and explicit repentance appears usually to be a prerequisite for forgiveness in Gondorian morality. That he will risk insulting Eomer under these circumstances suggests to me that he has considerable love for Denethor.


	6. No hours so dark had Pippin known

Pippin had not seen the final approach of the retreat from Osgiliath. Standing attending Denethor, he could hardly ask him please to lift him up onto the wall so that he could see. Denethor watched and waited; then finally gave a signal to the trumpeters, and Imrahil's knights sprang forward. The clamour of battle was audible even in the citadel; but after a brief while Denethor gave the signal for retreat and soon quiet returned. There were sighs of relief and muted cheers from the taller men watching over the walls – so Faramir's retreat was going to get home, Pippin concluded, his tension easing a little. He waited anxiously. He could hear little for several minutes until cheers broke out in the first circle where men could cry the praise of the returning soldiers.

Then, to his alarm, the sounds changed.  
"Faramir!" men cried; not in confident adulation as Pippin had heard a few days before, but in desperate grief.

Pippin's heart was in his mouth. _Not Faramir! _he thought,_ Please, not Faramir! _He started to wonder if Denethor had just lost his second son. _No, he must be still alive or they would not call his name so,_ Pippin thought. He thought the cries were not of mourning, or at least he hoped so. He restrained the impulse to rush to the out-thrust rock of the keel and look down to the open area behind the main gate from where the cries of grief were coming. _What has happened to Faramir?_ his heart demanded urgently. But no-one cared for the worries of a Halfling esquire.

He half-wondered if he had heard a sound from Denethor and glanced at his face. It was grim and impassive which seemed, Pippin thought, to be his habitual expression, but he wondered if the steward had turned slightly paler, or maybe it was a trick of the dim light.

Suddenly Denethor turned on his heel and without a word strode back into the tower. Pippin hurried after him and followed him into a small bare chamber which he had not seen before. Denethor halted by the windows, which faced east and north, and stared out over the plain towards the approaching hordes. He did not glance even for a moment down to the city and the winding road along which Imrahil was bringing Faramir in sorrowful procession.

All Pippin could see was dark, starless sky. He wondered why they were there – surely Denethor would see better from outside? Denethor did not speak, but waited watching in silence. After some time he sat in a lone chair by the wall, unmoving, unspeaking, rapt in thought. Pippin shivered. He wondered what had happened to Faramir.

The waiting seemed interminable. Pippin knew it would take at least twenty minutes for them to get up to the citadel; but it felt like the longest twenty minutes he had ever known.

Finally the pitiful party arrived. Imrahil's face was grim and his voice full of angry reproach as he told of Faramir's deeds, while Faramir lay senseless at their feet. His face was filthy; with paler lines where rivulets of sweat had cut through the layers of dust, while his armour was soiled with mud and blood: some red, some black. There seemed to be a great deal of red blood, and Pippin could only hope it was not all Faramir's. An unwelcome comparison came into Pippin's head as he remembered his last sight of Faramir's brother, pale-faced and sweating with spreading stains on his garments. _But Faramir can't die!_ thought Pippin desperately. He then realised that he knew all too well that Faramir could die, and wished that he had thought of something else.

To Pippin's surprise Denethor accepted Imrahil's implicit reproaches, making no reply, gazing at Faramir's still form. Imrahil's voice gradually softened as Denethor made no answer to the charges heaped up against him and the anger in his voice was slowly replaced with pity as he realised that Denethor was already reproaching himself openly with every accusation that Imrahil implied.

Then to Pippin's further bewilderment, Denethor ordered the servants to make a bed for Faramir there and then went out, taking account of Pippin only in so far as he gestured that he should stay behind. So Pippin watched as the bed was made, and Faramir was laid upon it.

Seeing Prince Imrahil's tender care of Faramir was comforting. His self-assured competence calmed some of Pippin's fears, but they re-awakened when the prince commanded him to help. He felt a fool, and utterly useless, when faced with Faramir's complicated armour. He wondered why Imrahil did not dismiss him, and wished he could have served more capably. The armour seemed entirely impenetrable, despite the obvious evidence to the contrary, and he had no idea how it divided into pieces or came off. Once it was unfastened, the weight of the larger pieces was almost unmanageable. He knew that men were strong, but it was brought home to him just how strong these men must be that they could even stand in such gear, let alone ride, run and fight. Yet their strength could not always avail them, and Faramir was…what? he wondered. Hurt? Sick? Dying? He was not sure he wanted to know the answer.

Pippin's heart filled with pity for this Man, so noble, beautiful, puissant and strong, whom he loved above any other Man he had ever met. It did not seem right to see him lying naked, wounded, senseless and helpless; not that there was anything wrong with seeing it: it was just wrong for Faramir to _be_ senseless and helpless. Faramir was the one whom he could follow even under the shadow of the Nazgûl, but if Faramir had been brought so low, what hope could there be for the rest?

It was the first time Pippin had ever seen a man brought in from battle, and nothing on his travels had prepared him for it. At the council a few days before, Faramir had been immaculate; his clothes spotless, perfectly ordered. Now, his clothes were soiled and torn; his body was filthy, wounded and smeared with his blood; he stank of sweat and of urine; his hair was matted and soaked.

Then he heard with alarm Imrahil's appeal to Faramir's courage to bear the cleaning of the wound. His heart sank further when Imrahil called on him again to help. He had been commanded to talk; so talk he did. He hoped he had not come out with anything too silly or imprudent, but afterwards he had no idea what he had said. To Pippin bearing Faramir's groans was hard enough; and he did not want to think of the pain that must have been causing them. When Faramir had started to press his hands, involuntarily tightening his fingers around Pippin's, he at first felt glad to do something, however slight, to ease the pain, but as Faramir's hands had clenched yet more tightly with crushing force Pippin felt only the pain in his own hands and thought how small, weak and insignificant he was; and once more utterly inadequate to meet the demands of his circumstances.

But Pippin felt relieved, and grateful to the prince for his tender proficiency, as with obvious skill he bound Faramir's wound and washed him and dressed him in clean garments. Once he was settled in bed Pippin could almost think Faramir might be going to be alright, until he glanced at Imrahil's face and saw the sorrow etched there. He listened aghast to his instructions to stay with Faramir as he died, and was only a little comforted by Imrahil's reassurance. _What if I get it wrong and don't call Denethor in time? Or too soon? How will I know when he is about to die? And he barely knows me! What if he calls for his father, or his brother, and there is only me? How can I give comfort to him when I am so full of fear?_ He knew, of course, that people did die; he had been to funerals, but he had never been present at the actual moment of death before, still less had anyone dying left in his charge. Tending the dying was something that calm, sensible, competent, grown-up people did, not him.

Then Denethor returned, horribly changed. Pippin gasped, in spite of himself, but Denethor did not appear to notice. He caught the look exchanged between Denethor and Imrahil, between fathers with sons in a war: that which they dreaded had happened to one, but the same fear was known to both. For the first time since going away, he felt a pang of guilt about his own parents. They did not know anything of what he was doing. Was he thought to be dead?

He was brought back to his surroundings by the departure of Prince Imrahil. Denethor sat by Faramir's side, saying not a word but with his eyes never moving from Faramir's face, heedless of aught else. Pippin stood by. He wondered if he had been forgotten, and whether Denethor intended him to be there or not.

It became darker as night fell. Hours passed; and the chamber where he stood became completely dark except for a faint red glow cast by the dying embers in the brazier in the corner of the room. The only sound was Faramir's laboured breathing. Pippin felt as if the stone walls were closing in around him. He became desperate to relieve himself. _Shouldn't he sleep, or eat, even if he did it here in this room? It won't do Faramir any good if he wakes to find his father has made himself ill watching over him, _thought Pippin. But such ideas did not appear to cross Denethor's mind and he continued to watch, as motionless as a statue. _And what about Faramir? Should not someone try to give him a little water? And does he not need medicine to make him better, to treat the poison? Where are the healers? Why have they not come? Why has Denethor not called them?_ Pippin could not answer any of his questions. Eventually he murmured apologies, asked for leave to withdraw and fled to a privy, but when he returned nothing changed, and still they watched.

Gradually the world became less dark. In the light of the new day Faramir looked worse, although Pippin was not quite sure how. Denethor did not appear to have moved at all since dusk the day before, but he seemed somehow shrunken, diminished.

Yet more time passed. Then Faramir cried out and his body tensed. He moved as if trying to avoid a blow and his breath came in ragged gasps. His head turned restlessly, and his face showed pain, or fear – Pippin was not sure which. Hoarse sounds of distress came from him. _Is he weeping?_ thought Pippin. There were no tears, but it sounded like someone weeping. _When did he last have anything to drink? _Pippin wondered suddenly._ Has he any water in his body to make tears? His clothes were soaked with sweat: he must be in desperate need of water! Where are the healers? Would they not know what to do? Or Gandalf?_

Then it started. One of the Nazgûl flew overhead and its cold cry rent the air. Pippin screwed his eyes tightly shut and he shuddered. Then it passed, and gradually he began to recover himself. But just before he felt quite better, there was another cry, and so it went on, each cry building on the effect of the last, giving not quite enough time to recover before the next one came. It went on for hours.

Pippin's trembling became constant. Still he stood, not moving from his post, for it was his duty to stay. He found himself concentrating on Faramir, trying to draw strength from that noble face, for he knew that were Faramir well, it would be from Faramir that he would get the strength to be able to cope with the black wings. All other thoughts were driven from his mind, and he trained himself to the task of hanging on to the tail of hope, refusing despair. _But Faramir is dying…No, _he thought, _he is not dead yet. Perhaps he will live._

_O Faramir, please live! We need you! Your father needs you; the soldiers need you; you must not die!_

Then he felt foolish and angry with himself. _What is the good of speaking in thought to a man who could not hear you even if you spoke out loud? And even if he is dying, he is not dying by choice. What could he do even if he could hear you?_

Another horrible shriek filled the air and all thought fled Pippin's mind.  
Still they watched; and still Faramir lay heedless beside them but his mind wandered in dark dreams, far beyond their reach.

Author's note:

The quotation which is this chapter's title comes from ROTK, (The siege of Gondor): "No hours so dark had Pippin known, not even in the clutches of the Uruk-hai. It was his duty to wait upon the Lord, and wait he did ..."


	7. The father's tale

_My son, my son, my Faramir! How have I wronged you, my beloved boy! I broke your heart; and still you went out, to fight, to die, at my command. You counselled prudence; and all others with you; and I saw only wilful disobedience and craven faint-heartedness. Now you lie wounded with deadly hurt because I asked, nay commanded, that you should prove your fealty and courage on a mission that could never have been more than a sop to pride; but has cost me my only living son. And I would not bless you, my son, for I chose not to set aside my anger even as my son went to his death at his father's command. You brought your men home, faithful to the last, and have paid with your life. My gentle lad, who hated war, you have shown yourself as strong and beautiful as the mithril of our helms. I have driven you to your death, driven you beyond the endurance of any man._

_My beautiful boy! All that was left to me of your lovely mother, and I have thrown you away. In my grief for your brother, whom you too loved, I have lost my one remaining jewel. So like me that I saw not your merits, only your tendencies towards my faults; and in my fear of them I have rejected you. Is it lack of my love that has made you follow another? And to our utter ruin, for the Enemy has It, and we are undone._

_Who dies in peace who dies poisoned? Yet before ever any arrow struck you, I tore at your heart with my words, and left you wounded and bleeding. Now my words return fulfilled to my ruin. There are never exchanges in life, but I have wished my Faramir dead; and now you will be, dying comfortless, wholly unloved as you think, and why should you think otherwise? for it was your father who told you so. O my beloved Faramir, would that I could show you my love! Would that you could know my love, if you still desire it. Have I thrown away your love, as I have thrown away your life?_

_Yet why should I kiss you for my comfort, when I refused to kiss you for yours? What captain would I send out unblessed? But I sent out my son unblessed. You received no kiss from father or from lord._

_How can I bear that you should die? When you breathe forth your spirit, my heart will break, yet I would that you die before they come. If they feast on the father, he deserves it, but not on the still living son!_

_Go to your brother, escape the sack of your city! But alas, alas if you should die, for my Faramir will be dead. They burn my city from without, and my son from within. So noble a man, but my boy still. My Faramir!_

Tremors of distress ran through Denethor's frame, as his eyes stayed fixed on Faramir's dreaming face, but tears blurred his vision. Faramir's hand burned in his father's. His lips moved and cracked, dry and hard like his tongue. His head turned restlessly, and he moaned. Denethor looked at him fearfully.

"My lord, should his lips be moistened?" ventured Pippin nervously. Denethor nodded, silently.  
Pippin went to the door and asked one of the servants to bring water and a cloth. It arrived a short time later, and Pippin brought it to Denethor. "Who should do it, lord? Will you?" he asked. Denethor shook his head.  
"You," he said. Pippin went round to the other side of the bed, trying to remember the little he had seen of his mother tending sick relatives at home. He dipped the cloth into the water and brought it hesitantly to Faramir's lips. The water dripped onto the bedclothes, down Faramir's face and into his mouth, as well as onto his lips. He coughed, and Pippin realised what was wrong. He looked at Denethor.  
"Lord, he needs to be raised on pillows, but I have not the strength to lift him," said Pippin.

Denethor moved from his chair to Faramir's bed and put his arms round his son's shoulders, lifting him with difficulty. Faramir's head hung back and he groaned. Denethor flinched; but tried to use one arm to support Faramir's head. Faramir seemed to turn his face very slightly towards his father, and suddenly Denethor's support became an embrace. He drew Faramir to him, until his head rested against his father's breast and he could press his lips to his son's forehead. Faramir's brow was even hotter than his hand, and the heat of it pierced his father's heart. Suppressed sobs became deep sighs as he struggled to hold himself still for fear of causing pain to the son he held cradled in his arms. He looked away, and his eyes inadvertently met those of Pippin who was watching him with stricken gaze. Pippin had never seen eyes so full of pain and remorse, but Denethor realised that Pippin had finished arranging the pillows and laid Faramir back against them. _He should not be denied water, with his throat parched, as I have denied him love until his heart cracked open like the earth in a drought, _thought Denethor. He touched Faramir's face, wiping away his own tears, and took his hand. The heat of it seared his heart afresh, but he sat again in his chair.

Pippin picked up the bowl of water, and anxiously approached Faramir. He gently moistened the dry cracked lips, but it did not seem to help much. He tried to get Faramir to drink, but most of the water flowed out of the corners of his mouth. Some seemed to be swallowed, but then Faramir was assailed by a violent fit of coughing. His face creased in pain and he groaned, then his head fell sideways and he lay very still. Denethor wept.

_My beloved son, if you cannot drink, how can you live? All last hope for you is gone. To long for your life to be spared is utterly vain. The best I can hope for is that death take you swiftly, that your suffering be past. But I do not want my Faramir to die! That pain will be more than I will be able to bear._

_O Faramir, my beloved son, would that you could hear me call you so! Would that I could see your beautiful grey eyes once more before they glaze forever in death._

_Go, lie in peace with your brother, not now separated even in death. But that will not be so. Your brother is lost. Who can say where now lies what remains of my Boromir? What will befall my Faramir's body when they come? I will be taken; but what indignities, what desecrations will they work on that flesh which I hold most dear, far above my own? Will you both, inseparable as always, lie desecrated, disfigured, dishonoured? And you leave your father alone, to die of grief, a childless lord in an empty hall, last steward, as last king, to die with no heir. I have spent my sons, and to no avail. My beloved and beautiful boys are no more. You are gone forever, and soon there will not even be any to mourn you._

_But not quite yet. Still you, Faramir, linger, to suffer in pain, slowly dying before my eyes, ever the stubborn one. How can I wish that you live, to struggle, to suffer, to die, drawn inexorably to your end? How can I wish that you die? for then my Faramir will be dead._

Author's note:  
  
Denthor's remark about a "childless lord in an empty hall" is in fact a re-working of Faramir's description of old Gondor to Frodo and Sam in 'The window on the west' in _The Two Towers_.


	8. In the Houses of Healing

Beregond and Pippin carried Faramir on his bier through the main door of the Houses of Healing, into the receiving hall for the sick or wounded. It was filled with wounded men; some as yet untended. Most lay in grim silence with closed eyes, although some could not suppress soft moans of pain; but a few were able to look in wonder at the _Perian_ as he entered. Beregond looked round, and was approached by a woman with a paper in her hand. She seemed tired and harassed, but smiled kindly at him.

"Are you bringing another one wounded? What is your comrade's name?" she asked, preparing to write on her list, and make a label for her new patient.

Beregond decided to answer the question without comment.  
"He is Faramir, son of Denethor, Lord Steward of Gondor."  
The woman stopped writing half way through a word, and looked up at Beregond in surprise and wonder. "You bring the Lord Faramir?"  
"Yes. He is very sick, with a fever from a poisoned arrow wound. He was wounded nearly two days ago, but has been cared for in the citadel until now," said Beregond. "Is there a bed where we may lay him?"  
"There is. One moment, please." She crossed to a companion who was sitting behind a desk with a large book. "They have brought the Lord Faramir, son of the Steward, from the citadel. Where should I put him? He needs to be alone – he should not have to lie wounded in front of the men he commands." Her companion looked up in astonishment at the news, then anxiously down at her book. "A few of the smaller rooms in the South wing are still empty. He will have to have one of those."

The first woman went back to Beregond, "Bring him this way, please." She lead them down several corridors, and opened a door to a warm, pleasant room with three beds in it, much more closely set than was convenient. "We will take down the extra beds, so he will be alone, but everything is arranged for a large number of wounded at present. Leave his litter here, and you may return to your duties. We will take good care of him."

Two more healer's assistants entered the room. The older spoke to Beregond. "We have been sent to tend the Lord Faramir. Leave us with him now to see to his needs, then we will know better how he is." Beregond and Pippin were shooed out of the room, and the women turned to Faramir.  
"He is covered in oil! How has this happened?" exclaimed one.  
"I have no idea," answered the other, looking at Faramir's glistening face and closed eyes, then at the door. "Perhaps I was too hasty in sending them away. I wonder what has happened to him. But let us start with his wounds. Did they say what wounds he has?"

Beregond returned a few minutes later, relieved that the captain of the guard had been prepared to take Mithrandir's advice to send him to Faramir. He knocked on the door and went in without waiting for an answer to find Faramir still lying on the bier on which he had been brought, but uncovered and stripped. A pile of oil-soaked clothes and bedding lay to one side on the floor, while the women wiped the oil off his body with soft cloths.  
"I have been sent to be guard and servant to the Lord Faramir, dames. What would you have me do?" asked Beregond.  
"If you have been sent as servant, come and help us clean his body, and tell us what has happened to him. The warden is coming to see him soon, to tend his hurts. How does he come to be covered in oil?" she said. Beregond looked worried.  
"May I tell you outside, afterwards? I fear…" He looked at Faramir, hoping they would understand without him saying aloud that he was afraid of Faramir hearing the conversation, even if he gave no sign of awareness. The women did understand, it appeared.  
"Very well. Now, come: take this cloth, and wipe his legs. Have they sent any clothes for him? No? Then we will use a shirt from the Houses. I will fetch one," said one.

Beregond worked as quickly as he could, afraid of his lord becoming chilled, but tenderly, with love. Soon they had finished, and moved Faramir on a sheet to the bed, with Beregond taking much of his weight. As he was moved, Faramir moaned. Beregond started anxiously. Instinctively, he reached for Faramir's hand then pulled away, unsure, suddenly, of his place. He looked at him uncertainly. One of the women noticed, and smiled at him reassuringly.  
"Don't be afraid to soothe him. It will help him," she said.  
"Have you ever been wounded?" she continued. Beregond nodded. "Think of how you felt then. Great lords, however true the blood of Númenor runs in them, suffer just as much as lesser men when they are hurt, and need to be comforted in just the same way. Now, let us dress him, then he can be more comfortable with clean garments and bedding." The shirt was long but voluminous and easy to put on. Beregond helped, considering the woman's words as she adeptly arranged the clothes then drew the bed coverings up high, tucking them round Faramir's shoulders to keep him warm.

Beregond heard Mithrandir's voice in the corridor, and he entered, accompanied by the Warden, whose face was grave.  
"Now that you have told me his tale, I will look at him, and see what should be done," he said. He examined Faramir's body carefully, then sighed as he replaced the coverlets. "His fever is high, but there is no obvious cause. I fear the Prince was right in suspecting poison, but an unknown poison is difficult to treat. It should help if he is kept warm, but there is little else that can be done beyond the usual treatment for a fever. It might help; although treatment given without a clear knowledge of the cause of a sickness must of necessity be of uncertain benefit.  
"He does not seem to be in too deep a swoon at present, so certainly we must try to get him to drink. He is parched. Have you any further thoughts, Lord Mithrandir?" Gandalf sighed, and shook his head.  
"No. But if he can drink it will help him.  
"Beregond, stay with him. The women will show you how to get Faramir to drink. The more he can take, the better," he said.  
"Yes, lord," answered Beregond. "My lords, will he live?" The Warden sighed, and shook his head.  
"It is hard to predict these things; one can never tell. We must do what we can," he said.

_But they think he will die,_ thought Beregond. Tears started in his eyes, and he tried to blink them away. _Maybe he might live, with enough to drink, if he is so thirsty.  
_ "Thank you, lord," he said miserably. He turned to the women nearby, as Gandalf and the warden left the room. "Will you show me how to help him drink?"  
"Yes, once we have tended his mouth," she said. "He cannot drink until his mouth has been wetted. Help me turn him onto his side, and we can start."

Faramir was laid with his head tilted so that no water would flow backwards the wrong way. The woman opened a small pot of a white ointment, and gently smeared some onto Faramir's lips, then rubbed it in, gradually softening the hard, cracked skin. Next she took a cloth, soaked a folded corner in a small bowl of water and worked round carefully moistening every part of his mouth. Then she released his tongue from where it had stuck, until it could move freely so he might manage to swallow.

Then they showed Beregond how to mix the fluid for Faramir to drink. "For every cup of water, you need a pinch of salt, and a teaspoonful of sugar," said one, demonstrating as she did so. "Then you stir it well, make sure it is dissolved completely, and he can take it like that. When you need more, make a fresh batch. Don't try to add more water or salt to what you have. If you make it new each time, you are less likely to make mistakes with the proportions."

Beregond helped them to turn Faramir again, then to lift him while he was propped up a little with several pillows. They placed thick towels round Faramir's neck and breast, to catch the water that would be likely to spill. Then they showed him how to raise Faramir's head with an arm under his pillow, enough to enable him to swallow. They tried with a teaspoon, then a small cup, but the fluid ran out of the corners of his mouth, and he swallowed little. Eventually one of the women brought a small sponge and a bowl into which the carefully prepared solution was poured. She soaked the sponge, and held it to Faramir's lips. He sucked the fluid from it, sip by sip, but some was swallowed and he seemed to become more willing to take more. Once they had found a method that worked, Beregond was left with the sponge and the bowl to continue. He knelt by the bed, desperately coaxing, cajoling, entreating his captain to take each sip. _Can I get him to drink enough that he won't die?_ he wondered. He bathed Faramir's face repeatedly, trying to wake him a little more, but always returned to the sponge which gave the little sips that Faramir would take.

At first, it seemed to go well. Faramir wet the bed, which the women said was a good sign. His fever stayed unabated, but he started to sweat, and Beregond's hope grew a little. Gandalf came and went frequently, checking on Faramir's progress. Faramir's breathing slowed a little, and he continued to suck the liquid from the sponge.

But as morning wore on, and they passed through afternoon towards evening, Beregond's hopes began to fail. Faramir became completely impossible to rouse, and did not make a sound, even when turned. His breathing continued to slow and became more and more shallow. His face took on a grey hue, his lips tinged with blue. He no longer responded by sucking the sponge held to his lips, and water given any other way flowed out of his mouth unheeded, or made him cough weakly.

Beregond laid aside the sponge and bowl in great distress. He took Faramir's senseless hand and pressed it to his face.  
"I'm sorry, Captain," he whispered. "I can't give you any more. I've failed you, but please live." There was no reply; and to Beregond the silence seemed to be the very silence of death.

Women came to check on Faramir and turn him, but this time they stayed. Gandalf's visits became more frequent, then he, too, stayed. Beregond withdrew to a corner of the room, and stood guard for one whom he could no longer help. Then there came tidings of victory in the field, but Beregond could not lift his heart. _Where is the joy in victory, if my lord Faramir will die?_ he thought. Bergil came, seeking him, and Beregond did not speak, but put an arm round his son's shoulders holding him as they stood side by side, and together they looked with stricken faces on the dying body of Faramir. _They said that he was dying…_thought Beregond desolately.

Several of the women of the Houses of Healing started to weep. There was talk which Beregond did not quite catch, then Gandalf abruptly went out. Beregond waited, and watched.

Suddenly there was a commotion outside the room. He heard Peregrin shout, "Strider!" and there was loud and rapid talk and laughter. Then Gandalf led into the room a tall, lean man with noble bearing and awe-inspiring presence. He looked very much like Denethor but about half his age, Beregond supposed. He was accompanied by Prince Imrahil, and one whom Beregond thought was possibly the son of the King of Rohan, with Peregrin behind. All the men were dressed as if come from the battle, and the tall man had a great jewel on his breast over a long grey cloak. He looked at Faramir, briefly but with keen interest, it seemed to Beregond. He left the room with Mithrandir and the man of Rohan, and Prince Imrahil moved forward. He sat on the edge of Faramir's bed and took his hand, his face grave and sad. He spoke softly to Faramir and leaned forward to kiss him. Beregond did not hear the words, but clearly he was bidding farewell to a kinsman on his deathbed. Watching him bless Faramir for his final journey made Beregond's reserve give way; he managed still to remain silent, but he bowed his head and he wept.

Then the tall man returned with Mithrandir looking even grimmer than before. He took Faramir's hand in one of his own and laid his other hand on Faramir's brow for several moments with his eyes closed; then he withdrew his hand and he sighed. They started to talk about Faramir's sickness, and the man examined him carefully, all over, like one of the leeches, even taking the dressings off his wound. Then the herb-master was summoned to answer the man's questions about the stores in the Houses.

_Does Mithrandir think that this man can save my Lord Faramir's life?_ thought Beregond suddenly. Hope flared in his heart, but he squashed it, unwilling to have hope grow and then be dashed into pieces. But when the man wanted kingsfoil, Beregond sent Bergil to fetch it.

While Bergil was away, the man knelt down beside Faramir, taking his hand again and laying the other on his brow. He called Faramir's name, often, but he too, started to take on the death-like hue that Beregond saw in Faramir's face, and Faramir, if possible, looked worse. The hope which Beregond had been unable to suppress completely sputtered and died.

Then Bergil returned with kingsfoil, and the man smiled! Beregond watched in wonder as he held a steaming bowl with an infusion of the herb in front of Faramir's face. Then Faramir woke! He spoke of the king! Beregond wept for joy. He dropped to his knees. He saw Prince Imrahil approach Faramir with a broad smile, embrace him and kiss him, then he went out with the stranger, and Gandalf and the Halfling. Beregond was left, and Bergil, and the women from the Houses of Healing.

"King! Did you hear that? What did I say? The hands of a healer, I said," said Ioreth, joyfully and triumphantly. "And now you are awake, my lord, and healed!" she exclaimed. She put a hand each side of his face and planted a smacking kiss on Faramir's brow. "And I do declare your fever is easing already!" she said. He smiled slightly in gentle amusement but said nothing; already his face looked quite different with colour returning to his cheeks and the blue tinge vanishing. Beregond's heart soared; and he found joyous laughter welling up in his breast.

"It is just like the old rhymes say! I always knew the king would come again some day, and now he comes just when we need him most. But he said you should eat. I will send for food from the kitchens for you. You can take that first, then you will want to be bathed, I expect. Fancy being able to follow the commands of the king! But if you are to rest, then this evening you will do nothing at` all but lie still and rejoice in being alive. That is quite the best thing to do when waking from a fever, as I've said before and it's always true. The king is very wise," said Ioreth, nodding sagely.

"First of all, if it is not imprudent, I would have rather fewer coverlets than I have at present," said Faramir. "I am not at all cold."

"Why, yes indeed! You must be far too hot now that your fever is passing! And does not the kingsfoil smell sweet? Wholesome, as I said to the king, and to Mithrandir. We must keep it by your bed, and surely it will help you get even better. But now we should take off the coverlets, so long as you will tell me if you start to feel cold. That would not do at all," she said. She stripped off almost all the covers and Faramir sighed and closed his eyes, letting his limbs lie spread out in blissful coolness. Ioreth wetted a cloth in cold water and wiped Faramir's face, fussing round him like a mother hen with her chick. She continued chattering happily although Beregond gave no heed at all to what she said; all his attention was given to Faramir.

Bergil's eyes were shining. Beregond suddenly leaped up into the air with a great whoop of joy, and cheered. Faramir turned his head and looked at Beregond with a weak, questioning smile. Beregond at once made an overwhelming effort, drew himself up as straight as he could and crossed to Faramir's bedside. He knelt, took Faramir's hand and kissed it, and said gravely, "I ask your pardon for my outburst, lord. I rejoice greatly at your recovery."

His restraint gave way once more, and he joined Bergil, jumping round the room, laughing and cheering in delight. Faramir's eyelids drooped wearily, but he continued to smile at the displays of joy before him, in tune with the joy in his own heart.

Eventually one of the other women of the house came and stood in front of Beregond with her hands on her hips and started to scold him, but not very seriously. "This delight is all well and good, but the Lord Faramir will want clean sheets and clothes and something to eat before he sleeps again, and if you two stop capering about like the children only one of you is supposed to be, you can help him!"

Beregond laughed again. "You are quite right, my good dame," he said. Calming his movements, but with the broad grin remaining on his face, he moved over to Faramir's bed and bowed. "Beregond at your service, my lord," he said.

A couple of hours later Faramir's chamber was quiet; and Beregond sat alone by Faramir's bed. Faramir lay, half on his side, limbs loose in sleep; and by the light of a single lamp, Beregond watched over him. His lord's breathing was deep and regular; his damp, newly-washed hair streamed black across his pillow in disarray and curled round his shoulders; his face was at peace in repose with all pallor of sickness or shadow of death banished far from him.

Beregond thought his heart would overflow with love and joy. He wanted to clasp Faramir's hand, kiss it and cradle it to his face, but he contented himself with an almost imperceptible touch of Faramir's fingers where they had escaped from the light covers of his bed. He smiled, through tears of gratitude. _He will live._


	9. Visitors

Early on the morning after the victory, as the sun was rising and Minas Tirith was bathed in a pink light, a grey-cloaked figure leaning on a staff wound his way back and forth through the streets as he rose through the city. He stopped at the sixth level at the Houses of Healing, and entered.

When the knock sounded on the door of his chamber Faramir was already awake, lying half-propped up against his pillows and trying to order his memory of the last few days. He knew that some of what he seemed to remember was dream; and other parts he supposed were reality, but he found it difficult to distinguish between them. He was sure he had dreamed of the king, and he thought he remembered that then he had woken to find the king at his bedside, but it seemed too much to hope that it had really been so. And he had been fed soup, he thought, by a guardsman – but could not think why; it seemed unlikely. Then after washing his body they had wanted to wash his hair, he thought, while he was in bed. He had not minded; having clean, combed hair was pleasant, but it seemed an odd thing to do and he wondered if he had dreamed it. He put a hand up to his head. His arm felt very heavy but his hair was clean: soft and smooth, so he assumed that they had actually washed his hair but he was not sure he been awake very much while they had been doing it. There were also dark and terrible dreams; muddled and unclear, but he did not want to approach those even in memory.  
He had woken again before dawn from long habit but still felt very weary; and he found that by the time he had resolved one matter in his mind he had forgotten why he had needed to think about it; and he had no idea in what order the events which he was trying to remember might have happened, while strong recollections of fear, misery or pain, but also of calm or of joy, came suddenly to his mind; apparently unconnected to any particular memory. Sometimes the feeling struck him forcefully; and broke a train of thought which then had to be re-started from the beginning because by the time he was able to think clearly again he had forgotten where he had got to when he had been interrupted.  
There had again been a guardsman – Beregond, he recalled – at his side when he had woken that morning and he had wondered why he was being tended in the Houses of Healing by the Citadel Guard. He knew the man serving him this morning, although not very well, and he thought he had probably been there at his previous waking. He had said that his captain had sent him to be Faramir's guard and servant while he was sick, which seemed odd – if the healers and their assistants were so stretched, why not, he wondered, send the servant of his chamber to him or one of the other servants of the household rather than use a soldier as a servant during a battle; and he was surprised that his father thought he needed a guard in the Houses of Healing; once a foe got so far, one guard would not be able to save so valuable a captive as the son of the steward: but Beregond's service was assiduous and gentle and Faramir felt very grateful to be served with such tender care.  
Beregond had given him a brief outline of the events of the last few days; but he had found it hard to concentrate on the words and was now not quite sure what he had said. He knew clearly that he was still alive; and in the Houses of Healing; and he had been told that the city was no longer under attack; and that Rohan had come; and that there were no longer enemy forces outside the walls. He did not quite understand how it could be that they had won, but there was so much that he did not understand that it seemed just one more part of the tangle in his mind. He thought that perhaps when his father came he could ask him; and then he would understand better …

This visitor, however, was unexpected. He looked at Gandalf in surprise.  
"Good morning, Mithrandir!" he said.  
"Good morning, my lord," said the wizard gravely. Faramir wondered at the mode of address, but said nothing. "How are you this morning?" he continued.  
"Weary; weak; shaken; but the city stands, and I live," said Faramir. "Mithrandir, has the king returned in truth?"  
Gandalf smiled. "He has." Joy dawned on Faramir's face.  
"Then it was no dream! The king has returned, and I have lived to see it! Now can we have hope that Gondor may be restored!  
"Is his name Aragorn? I am not sure whether he told me," he said.  
"His name is Aragorn, son of Arathorn, and he is of the direct line from Isildur, but also of Anárion through Fíriel, daughter of Ondoher King of Gondor, wife of Arvedui, Last King of Arnor." said Gandalf. Faramir regarded Gandalf thoughtfully.  
"And his claim is true. That I know with all my heart and cannot deny. But what says my father?" he asked. "I have yet to see him."  
"I know. Faramir, I have tidings of ill for you," he said.  
Faramir paled. Until that moment he had been unperturbed by his father's absence. The steward had many duties; he would not have the time to sit by his son's bed while he slept, whatever his inclination might be. But now he wondered if perhaps Denethor's absence had been intentional. He remembered clearly his father's anger when he had sent him out to fight, but could not remember what he had done at Osgiliath; nor what his father's reaction to his deeds might have been, if he had been told. The shame and sorrow of his father's displeasure woke again in his breast.  
"My father will not see me?" he asked fearfully.  
Gandalf sighed, and shook his head. "It is not that. He cannot come to you." Faramir caught his breath.  
"Is he hurt? Can I go to him?"  
"No, you cannot," he answered gently. "Faramir, the Lord Denethor your father is dead."  
All colour drained from Faramir's face. He stared at the wizard in horror, then his head fell back against the pillows supporting him and he pressed his hands against his eyes. Gandalf said nothing, regarding him with pity, waiting for the questions that would surely follow. Faramir's hands dropped back to his lap and he turned again to Gandalf with a gaze of anguish.  
"When? How?" he asked.  
"I will tell you everything you wish to know when you are well. For now, know that he loved you very dearly, and before he died he remembered it well," said Gandalf quietly.  
Faramir's eyes filled with tears. "When you told me he would remember ere the end, I hoped you spoke truly and it would be ere my end. I never thought it would be just ere his. He loved me dearly? And I him! Never was there father more beloved of his son! O my father! My father!" he cried; and he wept.

After a long while Faramir spoke again.  
"Will you take me to him? I would kiss him even in death, and bewail him as is fitting. Does his body lie in the citadel?"  
Gandalf sighed. "I will not take you to him at present. You are not yet strong enough. You cannot walk, and you can barely sit. First you must recover your strength and your health."  
Faramir closed his eyes in resignation. "Very well. It shall be as you wish," he said quietly, but he wept anew.  
"Your father was a great man, Faramir, and I mourn his fall very deeply." Gandalf paused, rose and laid a hand on Faramir's shoulder. "I am going to ask Beregond to bring you something to break your fast. He will feed you if needed, but you must eat, and rest, to regain your strength. Farewell, my lord steward."  
Faramir bowed his head. He could not speak.

Beregond had been sitting by Faramir's bed when Gandalf had arrived, but he had risen to open the door for his lord's visitor and made to wait outside. Gandalf had sent him to the hobbits, saying only that he might be some time, and that Beregond should take the opportunity to rest for a little from his duties while Faramir had no need of him.  
As he had expected, Gandalf found Beregond with his son and Pippin in Merry's room, where Bergil and the hobbits were talking loudly and laughing together over the scanty remains of a large breakfast. Pippin greeted him noisily. "Gandalf, will you have an apple? These are very good for early March." Gandalf laughed, "No thank you, Master Peregrin, not at present.  
"Beregond, would you take breakfast to Faramir now? Make it something hot – he needs it." Gandalf sighed. "I have just told him of his father's death and he has taken it very hard. He is in no fit state to hear such news, but the fact at least could not be hidden for long."  
Pippin at once became grave. "Poor Faramir." A thought struck him. "Does he like apples? I could take him some of these. I suppose I'm sworn to his service now. Do I address him as steward?" Gandalf smiled.  
"I expect he likes apples. And yes, you do address him as steward, because he is steward now."  
Pippin turned to Merry. "I think I should go and see Faramir. Bergil will stay and keep you entertained with tales of the city until I return."  
"Stay with him as long as he wants, Pippin. I'll be fine, I'm much better now. In fact, I might dress and go and see Éowyn. She must be up by this time," said Merry.  
"I think it might be wise to leave it at the very least until tomorrow," said Gandalf. "She is not a hobbit, and does not bounce back as quickly as you do. You could possibly do with some more rest if Bergil gives you a moment's peace – I believe Legolas and Gimli are planning to come and see you later this morning."  
"Leave Faramir time to eat and to be tended before you go to visit him, but then I believe he will be very keen to speak with you, Pippin. But whatever you do, you must not tell him of the manner of his father's end at present; It would do him grave harm. I do not think, however, that he will try to find out from you, so you need not worry too much."

The clear sound of the hour bells rang out across the city and woke Faramir, who stirred and sighed. He blinked, then his eyes closed again. Although much of his earlier confusion had left him, the joy of his waking the night before had also gone, and he lay, weak and sorrowful, his eyes filling with tears as memory returned and with it an aching emptiness in his heart. _There is no-one now, _he thought._ All my closest kin are gone. I have no mother, no father, no brother. I alone remain, the last of my line. All are gone. _The weight of loss felt crushing, and for a while he lay in sorrow before his thought shifted and he smiled._  
But Gondor is changed: we have a king again! A king whom I love, for I have seen his heart as he has seen mine. And I have seen a noble, valiant, virtuous heart beyond my deepest hopes. Had I made a king to my own imaginings, he could not have fulfilled the longings of my heart more than does this man; a man as if from a lost age come back to us bearing the nobility of Isildur himself, indeed a worthy heir of Elendil. I thought that the king would but postpone the evil day of our destruction, but maybe such a one as this can save us even now, despite what I said to Frodo.  
Does Frodo yet live? He has not failed utterly; for the increase in the power of the dark lord would have swept us away in an instant had the ring returned to its master, but there is naught that I may do but to wait as fate plays out the game. It is cruel in its exactions; but the end, who can foretell?  
But I must do my utmost to obey the king's command: 'Rest a while, and take food, and be ready when I return.'_  
He opened his eyes, to see Beregond standing near the foot of his bed, as if on guard.  
"Beregond, lend me your aid to sit up," he said.  
"Shall I fetch food for you, lord?" asked Beregond, as he lifted Faramir to rest against the pillows he had positioned to prop him upright. Faramir smiled faintly.  
"Yes, please. From the weariness I feel, my duties must have been heavy this morning; so I expect it can be justified, especially since I am under orders to eat," he answered.  
"Is there anything in particular that you would like, lord?" said Beregond.  
Faramir shook his head.  
"I am content with whatever there is for everyone."

Shortly, there was a knock at the door and Prince Imrahil entered the room. Faramir looked up in surprise and welcome as Imrahil bowed slightly.  
"I grieve, lord steward, for the death of the Lord Denethor your father," he said gravely. Faramir inclined his head in acknowledgement and gave the expected reply:  
"I thank you, lord prince, for your kind words," he said. Courtesy demanded that speech at the first visit after a death should start with words of regret, and Imrahil went on, beginning the customary praise of the dead man:  
"There have been few so high as the Lord Denethor for many centuries; and his loss is a great grief," he said.  
Faramir's composure shattered; he burst into tears.

Imrahil was slightly taken aback. He had expected that they would weep together, mourning Denethor and maybe others, but such sudden expression of unbounded distress was beyond any normal ritual of mourning.

He sat on his nephew's bed to take his hand, but the unexpected extra weight on the mattress disturbed Faramir's precarious balance; with a cry he fell sideways off the bed towards his uncle, too weak to recover himself. Imrahil caught him, and brought him to his lap.  
He decided to set aside conventional politeness and not to weep with Faramir just then; for this did not seem to be the usual chosen expression of heart's grief, but rather grief which completely overwhelmed all restraint and spilled out unchecked.  
The cries became ever louder despite Imrahil's attempts at giving comfort; and he shifted the body in his arms until Faramir lay against him with his head on Imrahil's breast. Faramir buried his face in his uncle's tunic, but his cries were not very much muffled by it. Imrahil kissed his nephew tenderly, cradled his head and rocked him as he would have a child, waiting for the storm to pass.  
"Will you tell me what is in your heart, Faramir lad?" he said gently, after a while. No answer came; only more tears.  
"What grieves you most, my nephew?" tried Imrahil again.  
"That … O my uncle! … that I am kept from my father's body!" wept Faramir. "Mithrandir has said so. But when I rode away to Osgiliath I had one wish: that I might kiss him again before I died. Now I live on, yet even in death I may not kiss him! And I may not even learn aught of his end! It seems to me that his end must have been terrible indeed, if all knowledge of his passing must be kept from me. Had he died well, Mithrandir would surely tell me so; or take me to his body for my comfort. I fear what his silence portends; yet I have given my word that I will accept it. O my poor father!"

Imrahil's heart went out to Faramir, but he knew he had stiffened for an instant. Faramir's shrewd guesses were all too close to the mark. He covered his reaction by changing Faramir's position in his arms, hoping Faramir was too deeply in sorrow to have noticed it. Faramir's similarity to his father was very marked: _it is difficult to deceive him and dangerous to try,_ he thought ruefully, remembering a phrase he had once used to Mithrandir of Denethor many years earlier, although on this occasion the danger was mainly to Faramir. But Imrahil could not avoid a feeling of relief that Faramir had bound himself by his word. He did not think it likely that many save Mithrandir would have managed to keep the tale from him had he decided to try to discover it.  
"Did Mithrandir say why he said so?" he enquired.  
"He said … I … had not … the strength," answered Faramir, between sobs.  
"And is he not right, for the present?" said Imrahil gently. Still weeping, he replied:  
"He is; but, O Imrahil, I …!" More sobs shook him; and whatever thought he would have expressed remained unspoken.  
"For my part I would say that that you were wise to accept Mithrandir's counsel in this and not press for greater knowledge now. He has full knowledge of your father's passing and will judge when the time is right for him to tell you that tale; and he will judge correctly," said Imrahil. "But do not draw great dread from his silence! It is not, I imagine, because what he would say that he does not speak, but because you are so sick. You live and I am very glad of it, for I love you dearly; but not a day has passed since I was close to despair for your life. Hearts as well as bodies can be wounded, as well you know, and both must be healed, and sheltered from further hurt while they recover. Mithrandir and the king saved your life, and it is they who have said how much you should know now. Mithrandir withholds all grief that he can, to spare your heart until you are strong again. I expect he has told you of Denethor's death solely because he could not hide the reason for the father's absence from the bedside of a beloved son, which you were.  
"Denethor is gone beyond our reach, and matters are as they have been; they can change now neither for worse nor for better. And whether the knowledge you have of his end is much or little, still you will mourn, for still your father is dead. At present you are weakened by sickness, as you have said yourself, and your heart is full of grief. You must wait." Faramir wept still more.  
"O my poor lad!" sighed Imrahil. He was not sure what more to say. How the Black Breath affected a man if he lived he did not know, and although he wished he could urge Faramir to bear the pain with courage, and that his strength would return, he did not wish to let ignorance lead him to make false promises. He was not sure that Faramir had any more reserves of courage on which to draw; he was in a wretched state. Finally he decided that he knew too little to say anything useful; and, as the saying had it, "when heads are at a loss, bodies must serve," so he continued to cradle his nephew, comforting him with his body without speaking, hoping that in time peace would return.

Then Beregond re-entered the room, carrying a tray of food for Faramir. He looked anxiously at Faramir and at the prince. Faramir did not notice his arrival, but Imrahil shook his head. Beregond bowed, put the tray down on a side-table and withdrew.

Eventually Faramir was quiet, and Imrahil spoke to him:  
"Can you eat now?" he asked, but there was no reply; and Imrahil realised that Faramir slept. He looked down at the body in his arms and his heart filled suddenly with tenderness. _O Faramir my lad! How old were you when last you fell asleep in my arms? Three, perhaps? _ The picture came into his mind of a little boy in Belfalas on holiday returning from a picnic with his uncle. The sun had been near setting, the sky starting to turn red as Imrahil had guided his horse back towards the city and the little boy sitting in front of him had fallen silent and then asleep, held securely in Imrahil's arms as his brother, on his own pony now, had ridden contentedly beside his uncle. His embrace tightened about the sleeping form.  
He laid him awkwardly back against the pillows. He did not look very comfortable but was too heavy to move easily without waking him, Imrahil thought. _Faramir lad, laying you down to sleep was easier when you were three, _he observed silently_. _He removed some of Faramir's pillows so that he lay a little flatter and would be less likely to fall from the bed if he moved. He brushed back the hair that had fallen across Faramir's face and pulled the bedclothes up higher. Faramir did not stir, and Imrahil decided to return later in the day. _Sleep in peace, my poor lad. You are still very far from well, _he thought_._ _But there is none left to look after you: you are the last of your line, now._ He kissed Faramir softly, caressing his hair; then went out of the room and spoke to Beregond who was standing guard at the door.  
"He is asleep now. Go and sit by him – it is better that he should not be left alone. But if you should need to, make sure he is lying down with no more than his shoulders raised on pillows. He is too weak at present to be safe left sitting. When he wakes, tell him I will return later, but I did not want to disturb his sleep, for he has need of it. Get him to eat, if you can – he needs to re-build his strength," said Imrahil.  
Beregond saluted, and went to keep vigil by Faramir's bed.

When Imrahil left the Houses of Healing, he turned back to the citadel and enquired after the maps of Ithilien of which Aragorn had requested the loan that morning at the council. The parcel was being assembled and Imrahil took it himself for he wished to speak again with the king. He rode downhill through the city past scars of war on every side. He paused by the broken remains of the City Gate, noting how the work of clearing the wreckage was proceeding and pleased to see the progress on the building of the temporary wooden barrier which would give the Men of Minas Tirith at least some measure of security at night. He passed out onto the Pelennor fields, where work burying the dead was commencing and great heaps of orc dead were being piled for burning, and came in time to Aragorn's tent. As he dismounted one of the northern rangers came out of the tent, and Imrahil was announced and admitted without delay.  
"I have here the maps you requested, my liege," he said, laying down the cloth-wrapped rolls on the table in front of the king. Aragorn nodded in acknowledgement.  
"Thank you for bringing them so swiftly. Be seated, if you will, and let us take some refreshment before you return to the city. I guess there may be some matter you wish to raise with me, since you bring the maps yourself," he said. He poured a cup of wine for each of them.  
"Verily, lord," said Imrahil. "If I may, I would ask you about the steward, Lord Faramir. I need to make plans for the city and in addition he is dear to me. He seems quite ill; and I would like to have some knowledge of what can be expected. He was overcome with sorrow when I saw him this morning and he is very weak, but we have no memory of what happens when men survive the Black Breath. Can he be expected to make a full recovery, if Gondor stands long enough to permit him to do so?"  
"He should, so long as he can avoid despair," answered Aragorn carefully. "I intend to go to him again tonight to see how he fares.  
"The Black Breath attacks the will and the control of passions; and heightens any assault of fear or sorrow, while the resources which one might use to counter such assault are reduced. He spent so long under the Shadow that it has stripped away almost all of his strength of will.  
"In addition, it produces great bodily weakness and unsteadiness which will be all the worse because he was so weary when he was struck down.  
"All these things will heal but it will take time; and meanwhile he will need tender care. In two or three weeks he should be fully recovered, although his wound may take a little longer if there are any complications.  
"As you saw he came very close to death. I would expect him to be improving now; but I would expect him still to be very sick, and his mind will be worse affected than his body. But be comforted: he should pass through his sickness undiminished even if it seems at present that he is entirely broken down.  
"He will suffer much from grief and sorrow as he recovers, perhaps the more for being unable to take any part in the expedition to the Black Gate. He must not know yet the full tale of his father's end – it would be more than he would be able to bear at present and might break him. However, providing that is kept from him, he is not, I deem, at great risk of despair. Few are those alive today who can compare with him in courage, strength or virtue; and if he is given the care needed, and allowed the time needed, your stern, bold and resolute kinsman will come back to his usual self, his strength of will restored, yet still with the same gentle and affectionate nature as ever."  
Imrahil smiled and bowed. "You comfort me as regards the steward. I thank you for your care of him, my lord. The fears and sorrows of this time are great for all; but you comfort us. Not only in battle have you saved your people, and you have my gratitude and my love for the succour you have brought us.  
"Now, if I may have your leave, I should perhaps return to the preparations for departure," he said. He bade the king farewell and set off to the city.

As the noon-bells rang, Imrahil returned to the Houses of Healing and re-entered Faramir's chamber. Faramir was awake, but his face as he turned to his uncle was sad and weary. They exchanged greetings then Imrahil sat on the edge of the bed, and took his nephew's hand.  
"Forgive me for leaving you earlier. I thought it would be better to let you sleep then return when we could speak together," he said.  
"I am afraid my courtesy to my kinsman has been rather lacking, this morning," answered Faramir. Imrahil smiled gently.  
"Faramir, how are you?" he said.  
"Weak and weary, and at times in grief, at times in joy. My father is dead; the king has returned. Do I weep or rejoice?" he answered. "This morning I have done both. My heart seems very changeable at present," he added.  
"The Lord Aragorn has said that your recovery will take many days. As for me, I have before known no-one live after falling under the Black Shadow, and that you live and speak with me is a joy in itself. If any proof were needed of the truth of the king's claim, it is here in your life," said the prince. Faramir shuddered and sighed.  
"I still hear death prowling round me, howling like a wolf in the night, seizing and devouring both my friends and my kin, although I have escaped for the moment. But for how long now?" he mused. He fell silent for a while.  
"If Gondor will have a king, she will not need to be ruled by a steward," he continued eventually, "yet I would live, for the honour of serving the king, if he will have me."  
"I believe he will. He has spoken highly of you – he seems to know your heart," said Imrahil.  
"'Tis strange, for when he came for me in the darkness, he showed very much of himself to me, and I have seen deep into his heart, yet this morning I was unsure of his name. Truly, my uncle, he is a king worthy of the utmost love and service!  
"But you say I fell under the Black Shadow? And my chest is bound, although I am not in much pain. My memories are confused, but I remember one flash of clear thought: that I had come to my end. What happened? How do I come to be here?" asked Faramir.  
"You have been very close to death," replied Imrahil. "I led my knights in a sortie to cover your final approach to the city from Osgiliath, but you fell to an arrow as we charged. We found your body on the field, and I brought you back to the city in my arms after drawing forth the dart from your side. I thought the arrow to be poisoned, mistakenly as it turned out, and that it would therefore be wise to have you rid of it as soon as might be. The wound however is not deep, and you lost little blood, but you had a desperate fever, and grief and weariness took great toll on your strength. You were two days lying between life and death, falling ever deeper under the Black Shadow, until the king came and brought you back. He used kingsfoil when he woke you – now the meaning of the name is made clear."  
"I have wondered on occasion why it was so-called, and now the old riddles are solved! But I have perforce given such matters little attention in recent years.  
"And we have had victory against the armies that strove against us? Tell me the tale of the battles of the past few days, since the time when you brought me home," said Faramir.  
Just then Beregond re-entered the room with food for Faramir. He paused at the sight of the Prince, and Imrahil gestured for the tray to be laid on the table nearby.  
"Lay down Lord Faramir's nuncheon, then you may leave us," he said. Beregond looked worried, but saluted and left, resuming his position as guard outside Faramir's door.  
The prince picked up the bowl. "Do you need to be fed?" he asked.  
"I fear so. I am sorry," said Faramir.  
"Do not be. If my sister's son needs to be fed, why would I wish to sit by and not feed him? Let me tell you of the battle while you eat."  
Imrahil told of the siege, carefully staying within his own point of view, leaving out all mention of Denethor and omitting the details of some of the attacks; he thought that Faramir did not need to know just then about the dishonour to the bodies of the slain, overwhelmingly his own men, who had fallen without the city. Faramir listened in awe as he went on to the arrival of Rohan as the Gate was broken and the city about to fall, then the battle and the slaying of the witch-king by the Lady of Rohan and a Halfling who had come with her, and the rain and wind which had put out the fires in the city, and brought the king, in the ships of the defeated corsairs, up the Anduin, bringing victory.  
"And all have played their part. Yours has been a most valiant part, for had you not held back the attack for the time that you did, the city would not have stood long enough for either Rohan or the king to have come to our aid; and without the help of both, Minas Tirith would have fallen."  
Faramir smiled sadly. "But forgive me, my uncle, when I say would that the praise for the defence of Osgiliath had gone to my brother, and would that I could hear the tale of victory from my father! Would that I were not now steward of Gondor! At the price that I must pay it is a duty and honour most unwelcome." He sighed and closed his eyes. "But does the king rule the city now? For I am at present incapable of fulfilling the lowliest of duties, let alone those of the steward," he said.  
"As I remember, although you could be forgiven if you did not, the duties the king laid on you last night were to rest and take food, and be ready when he returns. That you are doing," said Imrahil, as he offered the last spoonful.  
"I cannot, however, stay very much longer, for in answer to your question, the king has decided to remain outside the city to avoid any dissension until the dark lord is defeated, and has appointed me to rule the city until you are well, except in matters to do with the war where we are all guided by Mithrandir."  
"Then may defeat come swiftly to all the forces of darkness, that we may welcome our king as we ought!" answered Faramir.  
"Verily!" said Imrahil, "but you look as if you should sleep again."  
Faramir had tired quickly while he had been eating, and was now weary and short of breath. Imrahil laid him down flat and tucked the blankets about his shoulders. "I will come again when I can. Even if you are still a long way from being well, it is very good to see you recovering. Farewell!"  
"As you said, my uncle, all played their part. Thank you for my life," said Faramir. Imrahil smiled, and kissed him tenderly.  
"I am amply rewarded by the sight of you living and healing. Sleep well, lad," he said.  
Faramir slept.

Author's notes:

"It is difficult to deceive him and dangerous to try." is a quotation from ROTK, and is said by Gandalf to Pippin just before he meets Denethor.  
"When heads are at a loss, bodies must serve" is taken from _The Fellowship of the Ring. _It is quoted to the company as a Gondorian saying by Boromir when they are in the snow on Caradhras. I thought it likely that Imrahil also would know it.

In this story I am assuming that the Black Breath damages emotional control and produces emotional lability. This seems plausible since the Nazgûl induce irrational fear and seem therefore to be interfering with normal control of emotions.  
In addition, it is considered important to hide from Faramir distressing news which he will have to know eventually; presumably he is less able to cope with it while suffering from the after-effects of the Black Breath. Aragorn warns that if Éowyn despairs she will die, and it seems reasonable to assume that this applies equally to Faramir who has just lost his brother as well as his father, and possibly – although the matter is not discussed – friends killed during the battle as well as many of the men under his command. In addition, Éowyn weeps at her first meeting with Faramir. It seems unlikely that someone as strong and self-controlled as Éowyn has shown herself to be while caring for Théoden would weep under such circumstances were she entirely her normal self.

It seems plausible also that the Black Breath might produce physical weakness, although one from which those affected recover fairly quickly – over days rather than weeks. The Warden is told that Éowyn and Faramir will need careful nursing for some time. Since there is little wrong with Faramir physically apart from exhaustion which can be remedied by sleep, I have concluded that it must be because of the Black Breath that he needs such careful attention. Éowyn, too, does not rise for five days. Since she is so keen to rise when she does, it is likely that she does not rise earlier because she is incapable of doing so.


	10. More Visitors

It was late that afternoon when Pippin went to Faramir, carrying a bowl of apples. The apples were accepted with thanks, and Faramir bade Pippin lay the bowl on a small table near at hand. He was awake once more, propped up by many pillows, and to Pippin he looked pale with dark lines of weariness in his face. _But he looks just like his brother,_ thought Pippin again.  
Faramir's keen eyes held Pippin's as he stood in front of him in the livery of the tower, searching kindly, gently, but irresistibly.  
"Tell me, Master Halfling, by what name are you known?  
"My name is Peregrin, son of Paladin, my lord," said Pippin.  
Faramir held him in his gaze. "And how comes it that there is a Perian in my fa… – in the service of the Steward of Gondor?" he asked.  
Pippin looked steadily at Faramir. "Boromir gave his life defending me, and I honour his memory very greatly. I serve to repay that debt."  
"Did you see my brother die?" asked Faramir.  
"I saw him receive the wounds that slew him, my lord. His last fight was in my and my cousin's defence." Pippin paused, looking at Faramir's face, unsure whether to continue.  
"Tell me of his last fight, and the time that led up to it. I would know all that I can of the last hours of the life of my brother," said Faramir.

He listened, his eyes never once moving from Pippin's face as he recounted the events at Parth Galen and Amon Hen. He interrupted the story with occasional questions, for details, and gradually the missing pieces fell into the jigsaw in his mind and the contradictions were resolved. He hoped that his brother had repented, and escaped the pull of evil. It seemed so, by his demeanour as described by Pippin, by the actions which had led to his death, and by his face when Faramir had seen it for the last time. It was fitting that one who had attacked a Halfling should make reparation defending one. The hope gave him a small measure of comfort, but there was one matter further.  
"Did you array him for his funeral?" he asked.  
"No, lord, for I swooned and was taken captive while he yet drew breath," answered Pippin.  
"Do you know – was he alone when he breathed his last?"  
"I think he lived still when Aragorn came on him, but I am not sure, my lord," answered Pippin.  
"Do you know aught of what was done after he died?"  
"Aragorn, and Legolas and Gimli – the elf and the dwarf who were two of our company – gave his body to the great river, they said, that no foul creature might dishonour his bones."  
"For that I am grateful," said Faramir quietly. "It is a source of comfort amid great sorrow." He continued to gaze at Pippin, his face desolate.  
"Your brother was very admirable, my lord, magnificent. He was very valiant, and proud, and lordly and … and kind … and I loved him, my lord," said Pippin.  
"So did I, Peregrin, so did I." Faramir sighed deeply, and was silent, his face full of sorrow, looking on Pippin almost as if he could read some last image of Boromir directly from Pippin's mind.  
It was too much for Pippin. The memory of all the strains and sorrows of the last few weeks seemed to strike him at once, now that they were past and it was safe to mourn. His gaze dropped, he covered his face with his hands, and he wept. Faramir watched him for a moment then reached out and took him in his arms. Pippin wept all the more. Even Faramir's smell was like his brother's. Faramir sat silent, but Pippin did not see the bitter tears that trickled down his cheeks as he clasped Pippin to his breast. In time Pippin's sobs became hiccoughs; and the knowledge of whose arms had been comforting him sank in. He stood up straight.  
"Forgive me, lord," he stammered. "It does not seem fitting that I should weep for your brother before you." Faramir looked at him solemnly.  
"Fear not. In Gondor it is fitting; your tears honour him and so comfort me. In our eyes a man who mourns alone has a much heavier burden to bear than one whose sorrow is shared by others. But go now and rest, Peregrin, and turn your mind to happier matters if you can." He put his hands on Pippin's shoulders and kissed his brow. "You have given me much to think on, and I should rest also."  
Pippin nodded and sniffed, then bowed and made his way out of the room.

When he got back to Merry's room, Pippin's face was still tear-stained. Merry looked at him in surprise. "Hello, Pippin! What did he do to you?" Pippin shook his head.  
"Nothing at all. He wanted me to speak to him of poor Boromir's death, but it ended up that I wept more than he did, and he comforted me, although he said I comforted him too. He looks very much like Boromir, but I think he sees further. I think he loved his brother very dearly and no-one had told him much of his death. But speaking to him is rather like speaking to Denethor, although he does seem kinder, gentler." Merry looked at Pippin.  
"He sounds rather intimidating."  
"Not really," replied Pippin. "I would follow him anywhere, and trust him utterly. I think he inspires love in everyone who sees him.  
"But it is hungry work all this talk, even with Faramir. Have you had tea yet? Shall I see what I can get hold of?"

"There you are, lord, that's the end of the plateful. Would you like any more? – I can fetch some if you can eat more."  
"No, Beregond, thank you. Go and get something for your own meal," answered Faramir, resting his head back against his pillows as he closed his eyes, exhausted by eating even though Beregond had fed him since his hands were still too unsteady to bring a spoon to his mouth without spilling the contents.  
The door closed behind Beregond and opened immediately to admit Ioreth, bearing a steaming cup.  
"Good evening, my lord. I'm pleased to see you ate all your supper. It will help you get your strength back. It's very nourishing, that stew is. Now, I've brought you more of the herb to help that wound in your side heal quickly, and you'll be back on your feet in no time, I'm sure. But I need to help you for now, or it might get spilt and then you wouldn't drink it and then where would we be?" Faramir smiled weakly, but made no answer as Ioreth put an arm behind his pillow to lift his head and held the cup to his lips. The constant stream of chatter continued as Faramir sipped the medicine, and he found it rather comforting.  
"Now then, is that the end of it? Very good, I thought it wouldn't take long, and it didn't taste too bad, did it? Not as sweet as that kingsfoil the Lord Aragorn used last night, though. I'd forgotten how refreshing that was, and such an effect it had! Perhaps we will have to start keeping it all the time, now. I really thought you were at death's door, and then he came, and the things he did, I never saw anything like it! But it was me that remembered, "The hands of the king are the hands of a healer," I said and a finer young man than yourself to be the first he healed, I couldn't imagine."  
At that moment there was a knock at the door.  
"Come," called Faramir; and it opened to reveal the Lord Aragorn himself. He looked first at Ioreth who was still holding the now empty cup.  
"Leave us, good dame," he said.  
"Yes, indeed, lord, why I was just saying to the Lord Faramir…" she trailed off, as Aragorn fixed her with his eye. Faramir watched his new king who then turned to him with a warm smile. Aragorn noted Faramir's joyous smile, but also his weary face and tear-stained eyes. The door closed behind Ioreth.  
"And how is the Lord Faramir this evening?" Aragorn enquired gravely, taking Faramir's hand in his own and sitting on the side of the bed. Faramir reverently, if unsteadily, lifted his king's hand to his lips.  
"Very much better than he was yesterday, I thank you, my lord."  
"But somewhat weary from all the talk?"  
"Weak and weary, yes, but not from the talk. It is comforting. I find … I need it today. My heart is very heavy."  
Aragorn nodded in understanding. "It takes time for the shadow to pass completely, and in addition you have had news that is hard to bear. I think you will find yourself troubled and sad often over the next few days, quite apart from your grief for your father, and you will find it difficult to control as normally you can. I expect you will have much need of company. Those foul servants of the unnamed cast a long shadow over the heart, but you will recover, and your strength will return." Faramir shuddered.

"I fear, however, that despite your condition, I must give you more to bear. There is a matter about which I must tell you." Aragorn paused, and Faramir looked at him questioningly. "On the morn after tomorrow, all the Captains of the West march into the east," said Aragorn.  
"The battle yesterday was only the start. For final victory, the unnamed must be destroyed utterly, and that battle we cannot win through force of arms. Our hope must lie with Frodo, journeying east, and to help as we can we must distract the dark lord's attention away from Mordor as much as we are able. So I will take, with our allies, what army we can muster, some seven thousands, to do battle at the Black Gate. We will be the bait, that he may take it, and in doing so fall utterly. If he thinks I bear the One Ring, so much the better. In this plan lies our hope of success; and if thereby we may be freed for all time from the nameless and his power, then there is no price that would be too great to pay."  
_  
And I must stay here, denied the chance to fight for my king even once, for I lack the strength to stand, let alone wield a sword. O how cruel are the ceaseless depredations of war! My brother, my father, now even my king,_ thought Faramir. He looked away as tears filled his eyes and spilled over his cheeks.  
"Forgive me, lord. My tears flow unbidden this day," said Faramir, in a voice much less steady than he wished.  
"That is to be expected. But you are right; you cannot be part of the army going east. You are not fit for battle at present, but also one must stay behind to guard the city and hold it against the return of the king. Who better than the steward who has held the city faithfully for almost a thousand years?" Aragorn smiled, reading Faramir's thought in his face. "You will have the strength to do so; for you will not be doing so alone. More forces will arrive from the South to the defence of Minas Tirith, and some thousands of the Rohirrim ride to Anórien against the army now encamped there. I expect that it should be possible to leave the city as well-manned as it was before the assault began.  
"Whether you will be able to take active part in the defence depends upon the timing of any attack, but you should not try to hasten your recovery unless in great need. If you were to succeed in doing so, your final strength might be diminished, and I wish you to have all strength possible." Aragorn paused, hoping he had said the necessary, but in a manner that would not weaken further Faramir's injured spirit. _I must not speak openly to him of defeat and destruction when he may die if he does not cling to hope,_ he thought. Never before had he had to treat a man for the Black Breath against such a bleak landscape.

Faramir lay back against his pillows. _If they capture my king and bring him to Minas Tirith and put him to torment and to death before me, will it be my place to stand and watch and hear his cries as he dies bereft of hope or help? _he thought. He turned his head away, struggling to steady his breathing as more tears escaped from behind his closed eyelids._  
_  
Aragorn sighed, leaned forwards to Faramir, and gently kissed his brow. Faramir opened his eyes and with a great cry stretched out his arms and clung to his king, whose loss he so feared, and wept openly, stricken with grief which defied any attempt at restraint. Aragorn held him, trying to calm and console the distraught man in his arms.  
_Poor man,_ he thought,as he tried to soothe him,_ that such anguish should assail him! This is a cruel sickness that so torments a man's spirit._ He tried to comfort Faramir, rocking him gently, stroking him and speaking softly. _ I hope he sees that his reaction is the result of his sickness else he may feel very shamed. No wonder Imrahil was worried this morning.  
At least he still lives. Gondor needs him, and should I come into my own, I will need him. A sterner or less self-regarding man I have yet to meet; and he is as capable and as strong-willed as his father was. I could not wish for a better man as my steward.  
And never before have I known a man's heart and mind so intimately before ever hearing his voice. Gandalf was right. I see why he is so dear to him. He is dear to me.  
_  
Eventually Aragorn succeeded in quieting Faramir, but he continued to let him rest in his arms as his ragged, shuddering breaths steadied and slowed. Once he could, Faramir spoke, not understanding the turn of events:  
"I do not know what has come over me, lord. I am not … my usual self," he said hesitantly. Aragorn tightened his embrace then released him.  
"What has come over you is the Black Breath, from which you have suffered severely, and you suffer the worse at present for it is after nightfall and you are weary from the day's efforts. You will recover, but for now you need the balm for your heart, as you need the dressings for the wound in your side. Both the wound in your side and the wounds in your heart will heal, fear not. I have seen it many times before. And I have some knowledge of how you are when you are well, for I have walked far with you in your mind and memory. There is no need for you to fear that I might think this the usual state of your mind or your will." Faramir managed a smile, and Aragorn looked carefully at his face. He could see no sign of shame in Faramir's countenance, only weariness, and, reassured, he rose to leave. He kissed Faramir lightly again.  
"Now sleep well, rest and heal," he said. "I will send Beregond to sit with you while you sleep. I will return tomorrow evening, to see how you fare." He gave his hand to Faramir, who kissed it, then Faramir's eyes closed, and he was asleep before Aragorn had left the room.


	11. Brothers

The next morning, Faramir woke in the dark. Suddenly he felt very cold and he shivered. _When was I last afraid of the dark?_ thought Faramir, _but I am now_. He felt utterly miserable.

_I want Boromir, _he thought. _ I want my beloved brother._ His head ached; his wound ached; and he longed to rest his head on Boromir's shoulder and feel his strong affectionate arms around him. Boromir had always been there when he needed him. By chance, or by their father's arrangement – even Faramir was not sure which – or perhaps by both, never had either brother been wounded or seriously ill without the other being able to come to his aid.

At seventeen he had been wounded for the first time. He had been caught at unawares by orcs when on a hunting expedition, and not quite managed to block the stroke of an orc's sword which had sliced down his left arm. Soon after the leeches had finished tending the wound, back in the city, Denethor's duties had called him away; and Faramir had been left alone, bereft of the comfort of his father's presence. He had lain in bed in the Houses of Healing, weak from loss of blood, still frightened and in pain, unable to forget the face of his assailant, but ashamed of his fear and distress at what the leeches had told him and Denethor would be a wound that should heal without ill effects in the long term.  
Then Boromir had come home, returning earlier than expected from an exercise. He had turned immediately in anxious haste to the Houses when he had been told what had befallen his brother, questioning the leeches closely until satisfied that Faramir's arm would heal well. But he had calmed himself before going to his brother, well aware that however deep the love that inspired his concern, Faramir would need calm and peace; not a sudden whirlwind of forceful, anxious presence. He had entered his chamber quietly lest he should wake his brother, but Faramir had not been asleep. His greeting had been subdued and joyless; lacking all the gladness he usually displayed at seeing his older brother, although he had clasped his hand and held it. Boromir had looked at him, lying tense and unquiet, and then had lain down at his side and taken him into his embrace. He had realised then that his brother was trembling; and had kissed his brow softly and wrapped him in his arms.  
"Boromir," had come a small voice from within his arms, "do you get scared?"  
"Yes. Everyone does sometimes," had said Boromir. "But did you do anything you should not have done, through fear?" he had asked. There had been a pause.  
"No, I don't think so," had said Faramir hesitantly.  
"Then all is well. Every soldier is afraid at times. Even me. Even father. But a valiant man is one who might be afraid, but sets it at naught and fulfils his duty regardless. If you do that, then fear in your heart is no shame," he had answered.  
"Are all the tales they tell of orcs true?" had asked Faramir. Boromir had sighed.  
"Yes, my brother, I think they are," he had said quietly. Faramir had shuddered.  
"I cannot rid myself of the image of it looking at me; the evil in its eyes seemed to eat into my very being," he had said.  
"Nay; they cannot do that. They are cruel and pitiless and utterly evil, but your heart is safe," had said Boromir gently.  
"I shall never make a proper soldier," had said Faramir.  
"Yes, you shall," had said Boromir. "You are gaining the skill, and you have the courage. I had not fought an orc when I was seventeen."  
"Nor have I fought well: I was wounded and fled! The first time you fought orcs you killed six and saved the life of the man who had been appointed to guard you," had answered Faramir.  
"That was not quite the same; and in any case you did not only flee; you also scared them sufficiently that they fled, and acquitted yourself very creditably with your sword from all I have heard. Besides, what else could you have done? There are times when even the most tenacious soldier must flee, else he becomes a fool," had said Boromir. He had waited, holding his brother close. Faramir had started to relax, and Boromir had felt the gradual easing of the tension in his brother's body. Then had come quiet tears of relief; and finally Faramir had slept in peace, at last feeling safe and secure as he healed. Boromir had guard duty that night, and needed to rest, so he had laid a gentle kiss on the top of Faramir's head and closed his eyes.

A healer's assistant, coming in a while later to see how Faramir was faring, had found them both asleep; Faramir with his head on his brother's breast and his injured arm cradled within Boromir's so that no sudden movement would hurt him. She had smiled and gone out; closing the door quietly behind her and concluding correctly that Boromir's arms would bring his brother healing in ways far beyond the power of any leechcraft in the Houses. Boromir, ever vigilant, had opened his eyes a crack at the sound of the door, but he too had relaxed again and returned to sleep.

Some months later, it had been Boromir with a broken arm, concussion and a gash on his head, and Faramir visiting. He had taken his brother's uninjured hand and kissed him as they had always done when they had met. Boromir's face had looked confused and very miserable; and Faramir had looked on him with pity.  
"My brother comforted me greatly when I was hurt; so let your brother try to comfort you now that you are hurt. It is just the same," he had said.  
Boromir had smiled at that, but he had allowed Faramir to hold him, to soothe him and steady him when he vomited, and been grateful to be able to rest his aching head against Faramir's shoulder.  
Thus it had arisen that whenever one was injured, the other came, to give comfort and succour.

A few days later Faramir had seen for the first time that it was possible for his splendid and glorious elder brother to be flawed. After he had been discharged home from the Houses of Healing with his arm in a sling, a bruised face, and ragged hair, still matted with blood where it could not be washed because his scalp had been stitched, Boromir had been summoned before his father. Boromir had been drunk, for the first and only time in his life, when he had been injured. Denethor had been in a towering rage, and Boromir had wept with shame while Denethor had held him up as an object of contempt and for the first time ever compared him unfavourably with Faramir. Denethor had laid into Boromir, warning him of men's loss of respect for a man who could not command himself; and their loss of trust in one whose judgement might be impaired through his own fault or who culpably incapacitated himself. When Faramir had come to his side and taken his hand after he had been dismissed from his father's presence, it had seemed to Boromir that he might be the only one in the world who would still treat with him. He had forced himself to lift his head enough to meet Faramir's eyes.  
"So: the older brother you admired is no more," he had said brokenly.  
"But the older brother I love is just the same," had answered Faramir and Boromir had crushed him in a fierce, one-armed embrace, completely overcome.

"There are, in fact, many things I still admire in my brother:" he had said a little while later, once they were sitting in Boromir's rooms, "his strength, his endurance, his swordsmanship, his courage," choosing those characteristics that Boromir had most valued in himself.  
"But not his judgement; nor his ability to preserve unstained the honour of his House," had said Boromir bitterly.  
Wise beyond his years, Faramir had pointed out that Boromir's lapse was not widely known; that men were usually thrown from horses for other reasons so it would not be immediately evident that he had simply fallen off due to being drunk, and that while his injuries would enforce a period of some months away from the field, the work in the citadel would be a useful part of his training and would have been necessary at some point in any case, and even if men came to know and talked of it, his authority would not be irretrievably damaged by a single misjudgement that had occurred in a very young man when not on duty.

And Denethor, who had known how the conversation would run from when he had seen Faramir's first gesture of comfort, had been content that it should be so. Boromir would know the gravity of his offence and never repeat it; but Faramir's love and admiration would ensure that Boromir's confidence was not completely destroyed, and if at the end Boromir became a little less proud, that would be no bad thing.  
After that, Boromir had no longer seemed perfect to his little brother but it had diminished their love not at all; they had loved each other even more deeply, were it possible, than they had before.

And now Faramir lay in the dark; cold, alone and in pain, and he wept for his brother.

Pippin was on guard outside Faramir's door, to give Beregond the chance of some rest, when he heard the sounds coming from within.  
"What do I do now?" he wondered to himself. "Should I go in? I thought he would sleep until Beregond came back, but he shouldn't be left alone like this." Hesitantly he opened the door.  
"My lord steward?" he said.  
Faramir made no reply. He did not care who was there. It was not Boromir.  
Pippin moved forward and lit the oil lamp by the bed. Still he felt very unsure of what was the suitable response. This magnificent city, full of tall grave men who nonetheless normally spoke to each other using country endearments was hard to fathom. They seemed demonstrative and affectionate, very expressive in joy and in grief, but so formal with such strict codes of behaviour; and Pippin got the feeling that sometimes they understood his thoughts as well as his words, but he was not quite sure how they did it, nor indeed quite how much more than he thought he had put into words was understood.  
And what should he do with Faramir? Could he treat the Lord Steward of Gondor like a hobbit? He would never have dared to touch Denethor unbidden. He stood, uncertain, and watched. But it seemed so cruel to leave Faramir alone and comfortless. Resolved to action, he sat on the edge of the bed, and tentatively reached out a hand to Faramir's shoulder.

Faramir felt a weight at the side of his bed, very close to him, and a very small hand came to rest on his shoulder.  
"Lord Faramir? Why do you weep?"  
This time he did answer. "Because my brother, my beloved brother, is dead; and I know of no reason why I should not weep until my throat is parched and my eyes are sore and I have not another drop of moisture in my body with which I can form another tear. Alas, alas, alas for my brother! Boromir, O Boromir!" Faramir bewailed his brother with such force and raw grief that Pippin felt almost afraid.  
"Can I do anything to help?" he asked awkwardly.  
"Nay. Boromir is dead." Pippin did not know what to say, so he stayed, sitting on the edge of the bed, as Faramir wept without ceasing.

The grey light before dawn came, and still Faramir wept. Pippin looked down on him, unhappily, and decided it was late enough that he could wake Beregond. He lifted his hand from Faramir's shoulder.  
"My lord, I am going to fetch Beregond. Maybe he will be able to help you," said Pippin hopefully. Faramir shook his head. "Boromir is dead," he repeated.

Beregond was sleeping nearby, in case of need, and was already stirring when Pippin came to find him. "Good morning! Beregond, please would you come? Faramir is weeping for Boromir, and will not be comforted. He says he will weep until he has not another drop of moisture in his body to form another tear!" Pippin's anxieties poured out, but Beregond nodded calmly:  
"Yes, I will come, but do not be alarmed," he said. "It is our way. He has bewailed his brother properly only once, I believe, when the Lord Boromir's horn returned and the whole city mourned; for we all loved him. Normally we weep together when the death of kin or friend is known, again at the funeral, and periodically thereafter; but with the Lord Faramir's duties being so heavy lately, I expect he has not had much chance to do so before now.  
"If the body is lost also, usually it happens whenever those who mourn are struck particularly forcefully by the sense of their loss, if there is no duty impeding the expression of their grief. But the only one of his kin in Minas Tirith at present is the Prince Imrahil, and he is not here. For great lords such as these, it can be hard to find time from their duties to attend to such matters together as we lesser men usually do. I expect that is why he grieves alone.  
"We do have hope, but we know only a little of what happens after death; and the pain of separation can be very great," he added softly.  
"Is there nothing that could help him?" asked Pippin with worry in his face.  
"Nay. What could be done that would change anything? His brother is dead, and he mourns," he said. "But we can bear him company the while, so let us go to him."

Author's note:

I have been struck by how much Gondor is not like England in its social manners. I cannot imagine a British army officer, in Faramir's position in Ithilien, carrying Frodo to bed and tucking him up; nor kissing him goodbye in the morning, yet Tolkien says that Faramir acts "after the fashion of his people" so it is evidently normal for Gondor. They seem to be very polite and respectful to each other in speech and place a high value on courtesy but above all on truth.

Of the rituals of death and mourning in Gondor we are given little direct information. I think it is reasonable to conclude, on the basis what Aragorn does for Boromir, and Faramir's reaction to it, and of the embalmed bodies in the House of the Stewards, that a dead body, sometimes embalmed, is displayed rather than wrapped or covered for a funeral, and a song for the one who is dead seems to be important.

For Gondorians, grief at death is sometimes profound, but there does not appear to be any concept in Gondor of making reasonable allowance for it. Denethor's detailed interrogation of Pippin under cover of grief for Boromir, he describes to Gandalf, perhaps mockingly, as "indulgence of an old man's folly". Aragorn is greatly distressed at Boromir's death and seems to lose for a short time all ability to make decisions. However within about three hours he can set aside his distress completely to concentrate on the next task; and grief for Boromir has no discernable effect on any of his actions thereafter.

Prince Imrahil, stopping on his way out of Minas Tirith to pay his respects, weeps at the death of Théoden. There is no suggestion that they were particularly close, and Imrahil needs to concentrate on the impending battle, but it appears that if the king of one's major ally has been killed, the polite thing to do is to weep. He does not appear to have been overwhelmed with grief: he notices a few moments later that Éowyn is not in fact dead. He then makes practical arrangements, turns off the tears and goes into battle.

Faramir, by contrast, does not weep openly in Ithilien (he may be either hiding tears or suppressing tears on two occasions in Henneth Annûn), yet he displays his grief for Boromir unashamedly, both in front of his men and to Frodo and Sam semi-privately. This is evidently acceptable behaviour, since he says later that he did it on purpose as a convenient way to change the subject without his men noticing; and presumably it does not damage his authority or lessen their respect for him. If he is in fact hiding tears, it is possible either that he hides them in front of a stranger, or that he thinks it will be more difficult for him to get the information he wants if he weeps, as Frodo and Sam might be more reticent if they feel they need to spare him further distress. He too, although his grief is very great, has it entirely under his control; he "uses his grief as a cloak" as Gandalf puts it, as effectively as his father does.

When Faramir is wounded, many wept openly in the streets, and those in the city are at that point almost exclusively soldiers. However, Beregond hides tears when on guard duty at the citadel gate. Presumably it is not acceptable to weep when there is another task to perform, which would be in keeping with a culture which expects great self-control; but encourages open expression of appropriate emotion at a suitable time and place.

Evidently mourning at least sometimes involves weeping in public, and it is acceptable to express sorrow openly, although not always. Based on what I hope is reasonable extrapolation from ancient Egyptian and Roman custom, I am assuming that loud and sometimes public semi-ritualised mourning is likely.

Boromir is overcome by emotion, and irritated by it, when he weeps with contrition for having tried to take the ring but "dashes the tears from his eyes", although there is no suggestion that he was ashamed of expressing with tears his grief at Gandalf's death. It is not clear to what extent Denethor's tears when he weeps over Faramir are a deliberate expression of grief and to what extent they are beyond his control. He is portrayed as "mad" at this point, so his actions cannot be taken as a guide to acceptable behaviour in his society.

Aragorn, while not wholly of Gondor, is Númenorean in culture. He weeps for Gandalf and for Boromir, despite displaying great self-control in other matters. For Boromir his weeping is not only in sorrow at his death but also guilt; he appears to regard himself as responsible for Boromir's death and the breaking up of the Company of the Ring. He also expresses affection and comfort physically, at least at times. He takes Boromir's hand and kisses him when he is dying, embraces Halbarad when they meet and kisses Merry after healing him from the Black Breath. When they meet in the middle of battle, he clasps hands with Éomer, as he does with Pippin when they meet in Minas Tirith. Faramir also is demonstrative and affectionate, although he has the expression of emotion under tight control when he wishes.

It appears that joy, too, may be expressed very openly. Beregond and his son are "unable to contain their joy" at Faramir's waking, and the people (again, almost exclusively the army) sing when they are told of the victory over Sauron.

Perhaps emotions are expected on the one hand to be under very tight control, but the expression of emotion intentionally, especially grief at death, is permitted and even expected. It is possible that it is acceptable to express emotion only so long as one is not at risk of being overcome by it. This would be in keeping with the expressions of grief by Aragorn, Denethor, Faramir and Imrahil, but also explain Faramir's limited visible reaction to his father's attacks, Beregond's hiding of his tears and Boromir's irritation at his. Expression of emotion is perhaps a "high-risk activity", permitted only as far as it does not get beyond one's control or influence adversely a person's judgement or actions.

I suspect that in Gondor, where self-control is so highly prized, there would be "zero tolerance" to use a modern phrase, of drunkenness. I imagine it would be rather like Spain or Italy where alcohol is everywhere, but allowing alcohol to have a noticeable effect on one is completely unacceptable socially.


	12. Morning and Evening

Faramir slept, his weeping spent. He woke several hours later, to find sunlight streaming through the window, a fire burning merrily in the grate and Beregond sitting by him.  
"Good morning, my lord. Would you like breakfast?" asked Beregond.  
Faramir smiled wanly. "You will have me eat like a Perian soon, but yes, please, I would." He paused, then continued, "How is the Perian? Did I frighten him last night?"  
"I think you may have done, lord," answered Beregond.  
"Ah. I had better speak with him later on. Would you send him to me, after I have washed and eaten? Maybe I will be able to sit in the chair, if you help me."

It was some time before Faramir was sitting in his chair. He had eaten; his hand now steady enough to feed himself bread and butter, if spread for him, but the broth with it was as yet beyond his abilities to bring to his mouth unaided. He had washed, with help, then his wound had been re-dressed; but he had needed Beregond to comb his hair and to do up even the simple fastenings of the night-garments that he was wearing. Finally he had managed to take two unsteady steps to the deep, comfortable chair by his bed, then to sit rather than fall into it. With a blanket tucked round his lap, he was warm, if tired and slightly pale from the exertion.

Pippin came in response to Faramir's summons. He tapped on the door, and waited nervously. He wondered what Faramir would say.  
"Come," he called. Faramir looked grave as Pippin entered. He was not sure at that moment whether Faramir reminded him more of Denethor or of Aragorn.  
"Forgive me if I frightened you in the night," he said. "Our custom may seem strange to one of a very different land."  
"I ask your pardon, lord," Pippin answered awkwardly. "I did not know what to do. I … I was afraid for you."  
Faramir smiled sadly. "You have seen another one of our ways now, Peregrin.  
"Now, Master Perian, am I not correct in thinking that you would regard it as time for 'elevenses'?"  
Pippin flushed. "Yes, lord," he admitted.  
"Then take up some of those apples that you so kindly brought to me yesterday, and cut them for us both. You will find knife and plate on the table yonder. When you are done come and sit by me and we will eat."

Pippin worked quickly, slicing the sweet apples with enthusiasm. He brought the full plate to Faramir's chair and placed it on the table at his side. Faramir took the first slice; but he was not hungry and the effort of eating was not worth it. His attempts to pick up the slices of apple merely drew attention to the continuing unsteadiness of his hand and as Pippin did not appear to notice how little Faramir ate, he soon stopped eating altogether and sat back and watched Pippin relax, as he had intended.

"Tell me more of your journeys, Peregrin. I would like to hear of Boromir my brother, of Aragorn, and of Frodo," said Faramir, "but start at your home. How did you come to Imladris? What manner of place is it?"  
Faramir was an encouraging listener, and Pippin spoke freely, in between mouthfuls. There was no piece of information that Faramir did not want, but he also enjoyed the story, seeking a sense of the company with whom his brother had travelled for so long, and an understanding of lands that were for him little more than names in tales of lore imperfectly transmitted.

A long while later, very near the end of his tale, what Gandalf had said to Pippin about being careful with his tongue came back into his mind, and suddenly he was worried. _I hope I don't have to be wary with Faramir_, he thought. _I think he knows everything that I know and more, by now, although he does not look quite so much like a spider._

"There is another matter about which we must speak, Peregrin," said Faramir, suddenly. "The Lord Aragorn came to me yester eve, and he told me that he will take a force to the Black Gate to challenge the might of the dark lord. Do I read matters aright that you wish to go with him?"  
Pippin had been so bound up in the conversation that he had entirely forgotten about it. He came back to the present with a jolt.  
"Yes, lord," he replied hesitantly. "But if my duty is here, then here I must stay, I suppose."  
"You suppose correctly, Peregrin. But if you wish to go, I will release you."  
"I do wish to go, lord, as I have fought no stroke in this war as yet and I feel ashamed, in this livery I wear, beside others who have done such great deeds." Faramir looked at him with understanding.  
"Then I release you, Peregrin, son of Paladin."  
"Thank you, my lord. But I do not wish to go for ever. Your brother gave his life for me, and you I would follow to the ends of the earth." Pippin paused, embarrassed by his candour. "May I swear my service to you now, as I did to your father, before I go?"  
"You may. Give me your sword." And Pippin repeated to Faramir the oath of fealty he had sworn to Denethor, and received Faramir's reply.  
"Now come, and receive my blessing before you go. For I too would follow the king, but I am incapable of doing so. That I have one whom I may send makes it a little easier to bear." He held out his arms to Pippin and put his hands on Pippin's shoulders then drew him close enough to kiss his brow.  
"You have my leave to go. You will need to prepare for the march, and bid farewell to your friends staying behind."  
Pippin nodded. "Farewell, my lord."

Faramir felt suddenly very weary._ I think I need to sleep. Can I get myself back to my bed, I wonder?_ he thought. He decided to try to rise, but his limbs had not the strength to obey his commands. At that point Beregond came into the room, carrying a tray with food for Faramir. He was in time to see Faramir's head fall back against the chair as he tried to regain his breath after his failed efforts.  
"I think you might be better back in bed, if I might make so bold, my lord," he said. Faramir assented, but was too out of breath to speak. Beregond lifted him bodily to sit on the bed; then laid him back against the pillows, lifted his legs up into the bed and covered him. "Can you eat before you sleep, lord?" he asked.  
"I will try," he said. But Faramir could not keep his eyes open, and weariness made his hands even more unsteady than before. He accepted the meat and drink put to his lips, but the instant the meal was over and the stimulus to wakefulness ceased, he fell into deep and dreamless sleep. Beregond pulled the coverlets up higher, and settled down in the chair beside him for the next watch by his lord's bed.

Faramir was awake again and sitting up when Aragorn entered in the evening. They exchanged greetings and Aragorn looked carefully at Faramir.  
"You are looking somewhat better. How do you feel?" he asked.  
"Somewhat better, my lord. I am stronger; my hand is steadier, and today I can sit and have been able to stand for a few moments," answered Faramir.  
"Good. You are recovering well, it seems," said Aragorn.  
"Tell me, what do you think of Beregond? I have heard reports of his deeds during the siege of the city, and I am considering him for command. Would you recommend him?"  
Faramir thought for a moment. "Yes. He is brave, loyal, faithful. I have commanded him before, and men trust him. He seems a reasonable judge of character. He is married, with a son and a daughter, I believe. His family comes from Ithilien originally."  
"I do not wish to deprive you of your guard without your leave, but if you will release him, I plan to give him the command of a company of men of the city and use the expedition against Mordor to judge his abilities. If he proves capable and returns, he may merit a permanent command. However, this is an expedition for those who go willingly in full knowledge of their peril," said Aragorn.  
"My lord, I would not keep back a man-at-arms who is trained and fit for battle, and I believe he will wish to go. If it should happen that none return from the Black Gate, I will have more pressing concerns than lack of one guardsman," said Faramir.  
"Then he will be informed tonight. Do you know where he is at present?"  
"I sent him to eat the daymeal, but he will return here when the next hour rings."  
"I will visit others in the houses now, whom I must see before I go, but then I will see him here with you, by your leave. You will speak to him, but I would be present and assess his character myself," said Aragorn, rising.  
"Of course, my lord," answered Faramir.  
After Aragorn went out, Faramir closed his eyes and dozed. _ I must send for some books, _he thought, as he drifted off to sleep. _Soon I will be able to give them the concentration they deserve._

As the bells for the hour rang out, Beregond returned to Faramir's chamber. Finding Faramir asleep, he sat nearby, keeping watch.  
Beregond stood to attention as the king entered the room. Faramir slept on, and for a moment Aragorn stood watching the peace in his face. He laid a hand on Faramir's shoulder.  
"Lord Faramir," he called gently. Faramir started and blinked then greeted the king with a smile, kissing his hand. He sat up straighter and looked round for Beregond.  
"Beregond, the king and I were speaking earlier this evening of you and of your deeds during the siege of the city," said Faramir.  
"If you were given the chance to go with the Captains of the West to assail the Black Gate, would you wish to be part of that army? I must warn you that there is but very faint hope of return, and death is not the worst fate that could await you there, at the bitter end," he continued.  
"Yes, lord, I would wish to go. It seems to me that to be an enemy of the nameless is always perilous, but less so than any alternative, and to fight in the king's army would be an honour beyond any that I have ever deserved," answered Beregond.  
"In that case," said Faramir gravely, "know that the king wishes to place you in command of a company of men of the city in the forthcoming expedition to the Black Gate, and you will be posted, therefore, away from the citadel guard; for I do not wish to keep back a soldier who is fit and willing to go. Go, with your steward's blessing, and report to Belecthor, Captain of the men-of-arms of the city at the barracks."  
"Very good, my lord," answered Beregond. Surprise, excitement, confusion and incredulity all vied for places in his mind. This was not a response he had foreseen after his actions in the Hallows, and he wondered what it portended; and how much Faramir knew. _Maybe they are just very short of men, but this is not what I expected_, he thought. He was not sure what he had expected. He saluted, and knelt to receive Faramir's blessing.  
"Farewell, Beregond," said Faramir, and Beregond rose, took his leave from king and steward and departed from the room. _There is more to this than meets the eye. Still no doubt all will be revealed in time, if there is any time, _thought Faramir, and he decided not to ask, because there was something else he wished to ask the king, if he could.

"So, this is our last meeting before the army goes east," said Aragorn. "Is there anything you would ask of me, ere I leave?"  
"Yes, my lord, there is," said Faramir, seizing the moment. "Lord, if I may, I would speak with you of when my brother was slain, for I loved him dearly. Peregrin has told me what he knows of Boromir's last fight, of my brother's desperate defence of him and of his cousin when they were assailed and taken by the orcs of Isengard, but were you with him when he last drew breath? How was his death?" Aragorn hesitated, looking at Faramir.  
"I wonder if it is too soon for us to speak of this," he said.  
"I believe I know the worst already, my lord, for in Ithilien I discovered from Frodo and Samwise of his attempt by Amon Hen to take the Ring from Frodo by force. I doubt if there is more to know that could be worse than the knowledge I have already of my brother's shame and the destruction of his honour. But I have longed to know how was his death. Is there more that I may know, of his last hours, of his death? Did he speak, before the end?"  
"He did," said Aragorn, deciding to speak; since his words could not but ease Faramir's heart. "I ran to him when I heard the voice of his horn, but we were far separated and I came too late. When I came upon him he was alone, sitting, leaning against a tree as if resting, but he was pierced by many arrows. He was surrounded by the bodies of his foes – he had killed a score at the least, but there were over a hundred, and he had fought alone with the two hobbits. His sword was broken, but he grasped it still, and his horn, cloven in two, was by his side. The first thing he said to me was that he had tried to take the Ring, and that he was sorry, and he had paid. Then he told me the hobbits had been captured, but were still alive, he thought. He bade me farewell, and asked me to go to Minas Tirith, to save his people, for he had failed. I kissed him; and I answered that he had conquered, not failed, for there are few having fallen into evil who turn away from it and defeat it, as did your brother; and I bade him be at peace; that Minas Tirith would not fall. He smiled, and then he died. So passed the heir of Denethor, Lord of the Tower of Guard. His last words I have repeated to none before you."

Aragorn paused, his cheeks wet, and drew a deep breath.  
"Then with Legolas and Gimli, who came upon us after he was dead, I made a bier of branches tied with bowstrings with our cloaks laid over all and we bore him to the water's edge. I stayed by his side, while they went to fetch our boats which were some way upstream, and we prepared his body for a funeral. We laid him in one of the boats we had, from Lórien, with the cloak he had been given there as a pillow for his head. I combed his hair and arrayed it on his shoulders. His hands I placed clasping the hilt of his sword which we laid with the shards on his lap. His horn also was placed on his lap, and the weapons of his defeated enemies we put beneath his feet. Then we drew his boat out into the stream, and gave his body to the great river of Gondor, to Rauros falls, that no foul creature might dishonour his bones. And we sang for him, in bitter lament." Slowly, sorrowfully, as once before, Aragorn sang, and wept. When he ended, neither man could speak.

At length Faramir mastered himself.  
"I thank you, my lord, for all that you have said, both to him and to me, and for all that you have done," he said. "Your words comfort me. He has paid, with all he had, and that he had the chance to do so is a great mercy. But there is a little more to his tale.  
"Three days after the time when your fellowship was broken, my duty was to watch on the banks of Anduin during the night. And there before my sight passed Boromir, in a boat as you have described him, but without his horn, and lapped in bright water from which came a radiant light. He was dead; but his face was more beautiful even than in life and I knew he had died achieving some good thing. His boat passed on, away from me, down to the sea.  
"I was not sure then if I saw him in truth, or only in seeming, but I now deem that I did indeed see him in truth, for his horn also has returned to us, the shards found severally on the river. They were brought to the citadel, where we mourned, for the shards repeated to us what already I knew in my heart: that he was dead.  
"Later, when I learned from Frodo of his evil deed, my sorrow increased beyond any measure I knew; I could not see how he could have died doing any good thing, and I thought my heart must have been deceived at my last sight of him, if I had lost my brother not only to death, but also to evil.  
"But he escaped, at the last, and that is great comfort. _O Boromir_!" He sighed, and shivered; then looked up at Aragorn. "I thank you, my lord," he said again. "I will endure. I will not fail in your trust in me. I will keep the realm, my lord, until the king returns."  
Aragorn bowed his head a moment in acknowledgement, and rose to leave.  
"A moment, my lord, if you will," said Faramir. _Even if it is only once that I have the chance, I will kneel before my king,_ he thought. Aragorn paused, questioning then anxious as he watched Faramir push back the bed-coverings and drop his feet to the floor, then slide out of bed to kneel before him, albeit with one hand steadying himself on the side of the bed.  
"Farewell, my lord king!" he said.  
Aragorn held out his hand to Faramir, and he kissed it. "Farewell, lord steward of Gondor," he replied, "until we meet again." Their eyes met, gravely. Neither smiled. Then Aragorn turned, and departed.

Faramir hauled himself back up into bed. A little while later, one of the healer's assistants came into the room with Faramir's evening medicine and found him lying on his side, covers pulled up high, weeping quietly. She put a hand on his shoulder, gently stroking his back.  
"They have all gone away to the war, lord?" she asked.  
"They have," he answered sorrowfully, trying to stem the tears. She understood. Half the men in the Houses were grieving for comrades about to go to the Black Gate, while they were forced to stay behind, and those who had fallen under the Black Shadow seemed worst affected by it.  
"You will be able to rejoice on their return, lord," she said, although even the healers and their assistants knew that this was far from likely. She sighed, wishing there was better comfort she could give.  
"Let me give you your medicine now, then you can sleep," she said. She helped him sit up a little, and held the cup to his lips while he drank. When it was empty, she laid it to one side, but there was such misery in his eyes that she sat on the edge of the bed and again laid her hand on his shoulder. He was barely older than her grandson, she thought. She leaned down and kissed his forehead.  
"Sleep now, lord," she said. "If you need anything in the night, ring the bell. You will be better in the morning. I will stay with you while you are falling asleep."  
Faramir sighed heavily and closed his eyes. She let her hand rest on his shoulder, until he was sleeping deeply. Then she rose; and she laid the woven bell-pull on Faramir's pillow. The oil lamp she removed to a far corner table, but left burning after re-filling it: it would not do for him to wake in the dark.  
But he slept soundly, and did not stir.


	13. The army departs

The next morning dawned bright and fair. Faramir woke in the early morning light as the horns of the Rohirrim sounded. The sound floated up to the higher levels of the city and came in through the window. In his mind's eye Faramir could see his men following the quick, ordered routines of an army breaking camp and preparing for departure. _Never have I rued an injury more,_ he thought, lying barely able to rise, as his king, his kin, his friends and his men made ready to leave for the Black Gate. A great sadness filled his heart, but he was starting to feel the first flickers of returning strength.  
_My duty is not what I would wish, but my duty it remains, for the king has laid it upon me. 'Rest a while, and take food, and be ready when I return.'  
There are two whom I have released to send with him, and that must be my comfort. For now, I must hold to my duty, and re-gain my strength that I may be ready for his return,_ thought Faramir.  
He tried to sit up, and succeeded. Gingerly, for it was the first time he had risen alone, he pushed back the bed-covers and swung his feet to the floor. The rug by the bedside felt soft beneath his feet and, with hands on the bed to steady himself, he rose. He stood in his nightclothes, swaying slightly and gathering his breath, a look of grim determination on his face.  
There was a knock at the door, and one of the healers' assistants entered carrying a tray of breakfast.  
"Good morning, my lord," she said as she entered, then she saw Faramir, pale and resolute, standing unsteadily by the bed. Swiftly she laid the tray on a side table and came to his side, unsure how long he would stay on his feet. She held an arm out ready to catch him lest he should fall, but her words were approving.  
"This is good, lord. You seem stronger this morning," she said. "Will you take breakfast at table?"  
"Yes, thank you, I will," answered Faramir, and she led him across the room to where table and chair were arranged near the window. He walked slowly, but did not need to lean too heavily on the arm that aided his balance; but sitting was a relief. Then the tray was brought to him, and a bell laid on the table in case of need.  
"Do you need help with your food, lord?" she asked.  
"Leave me and let me try. I think I will manage," said Faramir in reply.  
"Very good, lord," she answered with a smile, pleased at his progress.  
The broth was a challenge, but by dint of filling the cup only half full, he managed to drink without spilling much, and the cakes with it were more straightforward. After he had finished he sat looking out of the window. The green of Ithilien was refreshing, but the shadow of the mountains of Mordor lay still on it and he shivered at the sight of them. Then his eyes moved over the land closer to the city and he caught his breath in horror.  
The destruction seemed far worse than he had anticipated. As far as he looked, all the way out to the Pelennor walls, he could see not a speck of green. Many fields had been brown; ploughed and awaiting sowing, but all the paths and lanes, pastures, hedges and orchards had vanished into a sea of mud and burned wreckage of engines of war. Other than the roads, the occasional burned tree-stump or shell of a building was the only variation in the devastation before him, except for the burial mounds. Those were far too many; and far too large.  
The cost of the battle hit him; and he burst into tears. He realised he did not know even how many of his own men he had managed to lead back from Osgiliath alive. _And the enemy destroyed everything they saw,_ he thought. Even when Aragorn had mentioned the size of the army he was taking to the Black Gate, Faramir had not thought to ask about the casualties of the siege and the battle. He wondered how much destruction there was in the city.  
_Yet most likely we who yet live have had our deaths delayed a few days or weeks only, _he thought. It crossed his mind that he might have preferred death to the torment that would otherwise await him. _The nameless one will break me,_ he thought. _He will take the measure of my strength and he will break me. And he will draw a fine line where neither grief nor pain will be quite enough to slay me; but he will torment my mind and my body; and I will be broken._ He shuddered. Then his father's words came to him … "Let all who fight the Enemy keep hope while they may, and after hope still the hardihood to die free,"… and they strengthened him. _I will, father, _he vowed silently. _With every last drop of strength that I can summon I will not submit._ Then he saw in his mind's eye Boromir smiling at him as he repeated the words that he always used to encourage him in the face of weariness, pain or disheartenment … "Of course you can do it! This is not beyond the little brother of Boromir,"… And it never had been. The words had become a joke between them; repeated so often that they were predictable in all circumstances, and the little brother of Boromir had always found the resources he needed to complete the task whatever it might be. More of Boromir's words came to him; from when he had been very young, wounded and frightened: … "A valiant man is one who might be afraid, but counts it as naught and fulfils his duty regardless. If you do that, then fear in your heart is no shame."_ Whatever fate brings me, whether it be death or torment, may the Valar grant me the strength to face it steadily,_ he thought.  
His gaze turned again to the battlefield. _The fields! _he thought suddenly, in alarm close to panic. _If they are not sown, come winter we will starve! If by then any still live, in winter my people will starve! _He stared in horror, tears starting again in his eyes as the sense of frustration and impotence became almost unbearable. His hands closed into fists and he raised one as if to strike something, then he bowed his head and slowly and deliberately dropped and unclenched his hands, releasing his breath carefully.  
Then a healer knocked and came into the room to see him.  
"Good morning, lord! How are you?" she asked with a smile of greeting. "Not well, I see," she continued, observing his face. Her grave, grey eyes met his and she sat at his side. "What is in your thoughts?" she said.  
"That so many are dead; and that more will die. I have looked out across the Pelennor just now for the first time since before the battle. The burial mounds are huge; and the fields have not been sown! What is the good of protecting my people in battle if they live only to die of hunger next winter? If sudden war does not take us, come winter we will starve! Perhaps that is the dark lord's plan: to take those who rule, and leave the rest to die wretchedly of want; and I know not what is to be done!" he said. The leech listened in silent understanding, encouraging him to speak more. Faramir closed his eyes and bowed his head.  
"What use is a lord who cannot rule, when those of my people who still live will face death by starvation?" he said bitterly. The healer took his hand.  
"Lord Faramir, you are a mighty warrior and a powerful lord. At present you are also quite sick still. I have no idea of the answers to your fears for us; but I would not expect a man to be able to read when he is asleep, and I do not expect my lord to be able to rule when he is sick. When you are well you will be able solve the problems that now seem insuperable. For now, listen to my craft when I say to you: lay aside such cares. The more you can do so, the sooner and the better will be your recovery,"  
"They sat the Lord Elessar is a great captain; but he is certainly a great healer, and we treat you according to his word. If you are to _Rest, take food and be ready for his return_, you must try to be easy in your mind. It will help," she said. Faramir sighed.  
"And I must bear my imprisonment with patience; for my release will come sooner if I do, you say," he said. The healer smiled.  
"Indeed so. But I hope that if we are gaolers we are at least gentle ones. Now, with a view towards hastening the day of your release, may I see your wound? Let me help you back to bed so you can be covered and warm while I examine it. If you get cold and catch pneumonia you will certainly be held prisoner for longer," she said.  
He lay on his side while she examined, cleaned and re-dressed the wound, then she left him, after saying that the wound was mending well; and she would return later in the day with the warden.  
The healer's assistant came back afterwards to help him wash and dress. She was talkative and encouraging, but although Faramir answered her, she did not succeed in lifting his spirits. Washing and dressing took longer than he wished, but he could do more for himself, and in not too long he was back by the window watching the muster of the army on the Pelennor before they set off towards Osgiliath. He saw the men of Gondor, neat blocks of men in green or black and silver and gleaming mail and recognised the Ithilien Rangers in duller greens and browns with no visible armour. He watched them with love and pride, under a heavy blanket of sorrow, for it was unlikely that any would return. _Such fine men, _he thought, _brave and loyal and steadfast.  
_The knights of Dol Amroth came next to the field in blue and silver. He saw his uncle's banner, and saw the beloved figure of the prince moving easily and proudly on his horse. Faramir closed his eyes for a moment, trying to imprint on his mind this last image of Imrahil, by which to remember him. Their parting the previous day had been brief. There had been little to say, and no comfort to give. Imrahil had asked Faramir about his recovery, and told him of the reports he had left with Húrin of the Keys telling of what he had done while ruling the city, which Faramir would need when he took up his duties. Then they had said farewell, embraced and kissed, and Imrahil had gone. The door had closed quietly behind him. _I expect that I shall not ever see him again, _he had thought, as he had watched as his steady, calm, dependable uncle walk away to die. He had managed to contain his grief for a few moments, but there had been too many partings, and as the footsteps faded away he had dissolved into tears. He had wept long, the grief of each final parting re-awakening in his heart; this further parting had been painful beyond that which his strength could bear.  
He looked back to the field, and next came the king's banner. He could not pick out the king amid his kinsmen, all in grey on rough-coated horses. The gems on the banner gleamed in the sun, and there was a sudden stab of pain in Faramir's aching heart. He stopped the tears which came to his eyes, for he wanted clear pictures in his memory. _If I must weep, let it be later, for I cannot see them later,_ he thought._ They will be gone_.  
The Rohirrim, on foot and on horseback, marched next into view, in many colours but all with flaxen or golden plaits visible beneath their helmets.  
Once, he heard voices outside his door, and the Warden spoke. "How has he been, this morning?"  
"His wound is healing well and his strength is starting to return; but he is very heavy-hearted. He is also starting to fret about affairs of state which he does not have the strength to manage yet. We are his gaolers, he says, I believe in jest, but the frustration behind the words is real. He would benefit from something else to think about; but it will be difficult for the steward to turn his thoughts away from the wars on which all depends," said the leech who had visited him that morning.  
_ Verily,_ thought Faramir, absently, his eyes fixed on the scene below him.  
"He was watching the muster of the army when I left him," added the assistant who had helped him dress.  
"Then we will return this afternoon. He will not want to be disturbed now," said the Warden, and the voices faded.  
The morning passed as he sat watching. The horns sounded again, and slowly the army moved off. Slowly they faded into the distance, but it was a long time before he turned away from the window.  
He looked round for a distraction from his thoughts, but there was none readily to hand. The books for which he had sent that morning had not yet arrived. He sighed, and a wave of weariness washed over him. He decided it was too far to get back to bed unaided, so rang the bell. He found he could still walk, but needed to lean rather more heavily on the assisting arm than he had in the early morning. Nuncheon he took in bed, then almost immediately slid down his pillows to lie flat and slept.

He woke to find the books that he had requested from the citadel at his side, left by his bed while he had been sleeping. At the top of the pile was a blue volume with silver stars embossed on the cover. He laid a hand on it, almost caressing the smooth leather, remembering the one whose gift it had been.  
"_My father!" _he whispered. _"I loved you!"_


	14. The White Lady of Rohan

Two days later, Faramir walked in the garden, the sun warm on his back. He could feel the strength starting to return to his limbs, but his heart was still very heavy.

_My king has gone, gone to his death. Why must he die for me, not I for him? My father spoke truly– ten thousand years would not suffice to supplant such a one as this. If Frodo succeeds in his mission, the world will survive, the dark lord will be destroyed, but at such price. Has the king returned to die, to give his life, making himself a distraction? To me he is no distraction. The Ring may be more important, but it is the king that I love. It would be folly to give the Ring for my king's life, but my heart would do so now. Maybe it is well that it is out of my reach, and I unable to approach it. O Boromir, you fell in your weakness, and so easily could I fall in mine! If they capture him, and bring him to the city, and put him to torment in front of my eyes, still I must deny them the city, for I have vowed to him that I will hold it for him; but surely my heart will break. I must not fail him. So worthy a king deserves the best of my service, and I will not fail him. Yet shall I die, of grief? The men say I bear a charmed life, but cannot death be a sweet release? But one denied to me.  
I must recover, re-gain my strength. I shall need every fraction of it. All my hopes have gone east, to fall in Mordor. But I must continue, without them, and I need my strength. I must make it sufficient.  
_  
But the grass at his side and the early flowers seemed points of light in the world. _A thing of beauty,_ he thought. _However bleak the world, a flower is beautiful._ He considered the flower, trying to focus his attention on it, seeking brief respite. _It is truly lovely._

His reverie was broken by footsteps approaching. The Warden came up, his face anxious, and behind him marched a lady of the most breath-taking loveliness he had ever seen. She carried one arm in a sling, and he realised in an instant who she was, before the Warden presented her. _The Lady of Rohan. Here is the triumph of hope unlooked for. The slayers of the witch-king – not Boromir, not Eärnur, but a maiden and a Halfling. But they did not tell me she was so beautiful, so lovely. And in such sorrow!_

Never had Faramir met anyone who had touched his heart so deeply. As they talked he felt an irrational urge to gather her in his arms, press her to his heart and heal all her hurts with kisses._ But I don't think it would actually help if I did it in truth,_ he thought with a flash of wry humour. _I would see her again – I can't let her vanish as suddenly as she came._

She went back into the house, with vague and discouraging comments. _Never have I seen such loveliness, or such sorrow,_ thought Faramir._ Why does she not desire the speech of the living? Is there nothing that can be done to help? I would not leave her alone to suffer so. She cannot ease my sorrow, she says, although she is mistaken; she eases my heart merely by allowing me to look on her, but can there not be some ease for her? Her beauty should bring joy to any who sees her; but who could rejoice in the face of such grief as is hers?_ He continued walking up and down, his gaze following his thoughts back to the house and the Lady of Rohan. After a time he went back into the house and summoned the Warden to his chamber where they could speak privately.  
"I would speak with you of the Lady of Rohan."


	15. Tell me of my father's end

Faramir sat in the chair by his bed, completely absorbed in his book. It had been his father's last gift; and now he had time to enjoy it. Faramir felt better than he could ever remember feeling, full of life, health and strength. The warden had indicated that very soon he would be released from the Houses of Healing. The king had returned; and even now was celebrating in triumph on the field of victory. A new era of hope, promise and peace seemed to be dawning, and even the white lady of Rohan seemed to be thawing. He was not sure that his suit was acceptable yet, but he was prepared to be patient, even to the extent of waiting a year or more – for a prize so great, there did not seem to be any undertaking too onerous. But that morning she was having her broken arm tended, so Faramir had turned his attention to Osgiliath.

There was a knock on his door. Faramir laid aside his book, noting his place, but his hand continued to rest on it. The connection with his father was precious, and he was unwilling to break it. "Come," he called.  
It was Mithrandir who entered the room. Faramir greeted him in surprise and pleasure and bade him sit near to him.  
"I am pleased to see you so well recovered, my lord steward," said Gandalf. "The warden tells me that maybe he will release you today since you are now ready to take up your duties."  
"There is much to do in the city to prepare all for the king's coming. But to what do I owe the honour of your visit?" he asked, but even as he spoke a sense of foreboding stole over his heart, and he answered his own question. "You come to speak to me of my father."  
Gandalf regarded him gravely. "I do. It is a tale I think you need to hear, but I am afraid it will not be easy hearing."  
Faramir lifted his book and laid it in his lap. "Hard or easy, I would know the full tale of my father's end, for he was my father. How did my father die?" he said.  
"It is a tale that will be very hard for you to bear," repeated Gandalf, quietly.  
Faramir steeled himself. The fingers of the hand lying on his book closed tightly upon it. "Tell me the worst first of all, that I may know the measure of my sorrow at the start."  
"There is more than one thing that will give you great sorrow. The first is this: that your father died by his own hand, in a madness of pride and despair," said Gandalf.  
Faramir closed his eyes in horror. Nausea rose in his throat, but he fought it down.  
"How?" he asked.  
"By fire, in the House of the Stewards in Rath Dinen," said Gandalf.  
"And his body was consumed?" said Faramir.  
"Yes. The House of the Stewards in Rath Dinen has collapsed, and I fear that the bodies of all the dead of your line have been destroyed," answered the wizard.  
"And the rod of his stewardship?" he asked again.  
"He fed it to the flames," he said.  
Faramir's mind reeled under the successive blows, but he continued. "Is there more?"  
Gandalf sighed. "One thing more. Your father, when he despaired of your life, had your body also placed upon the pyre."  
"How is it that I live?" said Faramir.  
"Your body was rescued from the flames by Peregrin the Halfling, and Beregond, and me," said Gandalf.  
"Yet you could not save my father?" said Faramir.  
"He would not," answered Gandalf.  
Faramir sat as still as a carven image. He opened his eyes and bent his gaze on Gandalf.  
"I would ask you to tell me the whole tale: every deed, every word. Spare me nothing. I wish to understand," he said.  
Gandalf looked at him with compassion. "What do you remember of your retreat from Osgiliath?" he asked.  
"My memory is clear until the retreat was about half way to Minas Tirith, I think. After that, my memories are muddled, and I can make no sense of them until the time I woke after the king called me," said Faramir.  
"Then I will start from your approach to the city, for your tale and your father's are entwined," said Gandalf. He related the full tale of Faramir's wounding and his return to Minas Tirith, then his father's grief and vigil at his bedside while the battle raged and the city burned, bereft of the guidance of her lord. He continued with the procession to Rath Dinen, Pippin's and Beregond's deeds, his own rescue of Faramir then Denethor's final actions, the palantír and his attempts to persuade him to have hope and live, then the failure of those efforts and Denethor's death.

Faramir sat motionless, with his eyes closed and his head bowed as the horrible tale unfolded before him. One hand held still his book, now clasped to his breast. By half way through he was weeping, tears streaming down his cheeks. Nausea assailed him in waves. He beheld with horror his father's ruin; and again his heart was filled with grief and with pity. Gandalf's tale came to an end, and he waited. Faramir sat silent and still, lost in grief and thought.

_O my father! How can it be? Your duty abandoned; your honour destroyed; your son dead at your hand had not others prevented it._

_Would you have burned me? Would you have plunged into my breast the knife you drew against me? Or cut my throat? With what sorrow must I consider these deeds, for all choices are grievous._

_Did you intend to give me death in sober judgement of my deeds? Nay, you did not so, I deem. For had you seen it as just retribution, why slay me then? Why watch over my wounded body with such remorse, such anxious care and desperate love? Why clasp my hand with such tenderness for so many hours, if in time you would have given that same body to executioners or exercised your power with your own hand?_

_Or was your mind indeed taken by madness, broken by grief and despair? So nearly you killed that life which you gave, and how great would have been your sorrow to see your own knife red with my blood! You would have bought victory over Mithrandir with the blood of your son and what then, the moment the deed was done? Would there have been anything else to do but turn that knife to your own heart, and mingle our blood in death?_

_Did you think that by your deeds we would escape ruin, Denethor and Faramir together? But, my father, by that very deed you bring ruin upon us! You become the tool of the dark lord, doing for him the deed he could not. With what cruel exultant triumph would he have slain the steward of Gondor and ended his line if he could but have had the chance; but then there was no longer need – he had driven the steward to do himself that deed which was beyond the reach of Mordor, even yet._

_Or would you have taken me from this world because I am not fit to be your heir? That thought shakes me to the core. Yet I vow to you, my father, that I will do my utmost to serve well. I am not best placed to judge my merits; but fate has placed this burden on my shoulders and I will fulfil the demands of this duty to the best of my ability. I hope, for the good of Gondor, that I shall steward her better than you have feared. I will do what I can in the time allotted to me. Dare I hope you will rejoice with me if I prove you mistaken?_

_I am grateful beyond words that you were prevented from slaying me. Not for my life, which has been at risk all the years of my manhood, but for that suffering you would have inflicted upon yourself, the despair yet deeper into which you would have fallen, not seeing the power of the dark lord which had overthrown your mind. Would the anguish of Húrin, forced to watch the destruction of his children, have been greater than that of Denethor, knowing that his own hand had slain the only son left to him? O my beloved father, in all your agonies of mind you were spared that, and I am thankful. My debt to those who saved you from that deed is very great._

_Yet another evil deed could not be prevented, and the consequences of that deed are a great grief to me. I have no father; I have not even my father's body to kiss, to dispose in honour and love. You are gone from me utterly. Nothing is left; and what grieves me most, – more, even, than the knife – is that never again may I kiss you, my father._

_You were very strong, yet you were felled by your trust of your own strength. You deemed that you were strong enough for the palantír, and strong enough to manage the Ring, but the use of the one under the influence of the dark lord and desire for the other formed a deadly alliance against you._

_I see in truth your love for me, which is balm for a heart sore wounded, for I feared I had lost your love for ever when I rode away from you in your anger. That I had not is a very great comfort, but would that you could have believed my love for you also! Would that you could have seen how dearly beloved you were of your son!_

_I see also your remorse. Father, in so far as it is in my power, in so far as you wronged me, you are forgiven. It is well. I live. The mission to defend Osgiliath was peril, but not needless peril – had my counsel been followed, maybe the city would have fallen too soon for Rohan to have come to our aid. The course you chose was a wise course, and I am not dead, and we have victory._

_The 'wizard's pupil' has never been, only your son, who loved you. I judged as I deemed best, and what little wisdom I have, I learned from you. Never did I intend to act contrary to your will, but the course I chose has not proved ill for our city; Gondor's king has returned and the dark lord is no more._

_My father, did personal power come to mea n more than service to our realm? Is that why you would not consider the truth of the king's claim? But, my father, the king is meant to be, and now Gondor can flourish once more. You gave your health, your beloved wife, your elder son who was most dear. Your own life you risked times without number and you risked me even when I was your only surviving child. Great sacrifice to preserve the realm is worthy of great honour. Surely honour is not diminished by the faithful rendition to its rightful lord of the charge placed upon us?_

_The king has saved us. He has saved me from death. He has saved Gondor from destruction. He has saved us from the consequences of defeat, in the dungeons of Barad-dûr._

_Is not the end of war, and the good of Gondor, worth a personal diminution? We are a line of stewards, born to serve, and to protect and guard the realm – until we render it up to one to whom we must give account. If this is to the king or if we merely hand it on at the end of life to a son – is it so very different? No man lives for ever. If we try to cling to power, it will slip through our fingers like dry sand, as Gondor diminishes in our hands. There is no honour in that course, or justice._

_You know all these things, sire, for all of them I learned from you. I speak to you for your comfort and for mine, in the hope that somehow you hear me. Would that you had known my heart, for ever has my love for you been very great. O my father, would that you had resisted despair just a little longer! I am not dead; and my love is not halved; and the king is noble, and has saved us. We are not slaves, but men free as never before for long centuries.  
__  
Forgive me, father, for my boldness, for, as gently as I may, I reject your choice for me. I choose life, and hope.  
__  
You too have chosen, but your choice is grievous to me; for I look on the ruin of one beautiful, noble, valiant and strong, my beloved father, the author of who I am. May I continue the best of you, for it was most excellent, and most beloved!  
_

Faramir opened his eyes, and turned a sorrowful gaze to Gandalf. He sighed, and spoke:  
"My poor father! My poor father!" he said.  
There was a pause, then Faramir continued. "Do you think he intended in truth to take my life on the pyre? As I listened to your tale I thought that he did, but I am now unsure."  
"It is hard to say," answered Gandalf. "In his mind your imminent death was not in doubt. Initially he may have intended to await your death and destroy your body once dead with his own still living, rejecting entirely all the custom of Númenor and Gondor, since he saw them as having failed. I believe the pain of your death was more than he thought he could bear; and he did not wish to survive you for more than an instant. Perhaps he thought that if he lay by your side, ready, then he could act in a moment when the time came. He had also lost all hope that the city would stand; since he believed the dark lord to have regained his ring, and wished, I believe, to prevent your body, whether living or dead, becoming captive to the unnamed. But leaving you lying senseless on a pyre, with your garments and coverings soaked in oil and fire at hand, was not a risk I thought it wise to run even for a moment, nor is it fitting that the living should rest in the houses of the dead.  
"Later, when he drew his knife, although you almost suffered the effects of his anger, you were not really, I judge, the object of that anger. I believe he saw it in terms of a struggle between him and me over which of us owned you, who commanded your love. Had another, whom he trusted and who loved you both, come to remind him of what he was doing with a knife raised against his son, he would, I believe, have stayed his hand and cast his blade from him in revulsion. His mistrust of me made my task harder, but he would not turn aside from death."  
"Would that he could have seen the king and the truth of his claim!" sighed Faramir. "Hope was faint for all, but we have won through. All his life my father strove against the shadow; but in the victory for which he gave so much he cannot share, for he chose defeat. He was my father; and yet of his latest deeds I am ashamed. And what great grief to have to say that I am ashamed of any deed of my father!  
"And here am I alone left of my House. My brother fell into evil, but escaped at the last. Of my father, who can tell?"  
"Your father fought long against evil; and at the end he was defeated. Yet a man slain in battle may fight bravely and still be overcome, or he may make a misjudgement, small in itself, with terrible consequences for himself and for others. Of his final lucid thoughts we cannot know. Always there is room for hope," said Gandalf.  
"It may be so; and now the life of Gondor is renewed and restored beyond all hope; but when I think on him my hope is at present a single sunbeam on a dark mountain of desolation with not a single flower growing on which that hope may shine. To see his duty and his honour abandoned is hard to bear; perhaps worse even than his attempt on my life. That I see clearly as being a deed done under the influence of the dark lord; and the dark lord's desire to see me slain arose, I imagine, the day I was born. Now the dark lord is gone forever, but I have lost my father. And I can give him neither a funeral nor a song," said Faramir. He sighed deeply and was silent.

"The Halflings' habit of "elevenses" has some merit, at times, I believe," said Gandalf. "Should I send for something now? Would you like anything?"  
"Yes, I would. Would you send for wine and white cakes?" said Faramir. "My father was very fond of white cakes," he added, _and never can I pass him another one. _His tears flowed anew.

After they had finished the food that had been brought, Faramir pushed his cup away from him.  
"Now to duty. Since the porter is slain, do you know who holds the key to Fen Hollen?" asked Faramir.  
"Beregond took it, at my suggestion, to give to you when you were well, but before he went to the Morannon, he gave it to Húrin of the Keys," answered Gandalf.  
"Then first I must be released; then I will visit Rath Dinen," said Faramir.  
Gandalf nodded. "Will you go alone?" he asked.  
"I will," replied Faramir. "This I must do alone."

The Warden of the houses of healing came first. He examined Faramir and was happy with the healing of his wound, but noted Faramir's tear-stained eyes and the desolation in his face. "Your wound is healing well my lord, and need not hold you here, but do you need to stay a little longer? I know you have received news of great grief this morning."  
"Thank you, but nay. There have been many troubles in the world outside the haven of these walls, but thanks to your care I have now the strength to confront them, and a duty to do so," answered Faramir.  
"Then I pronounce you fit to go, and may you never suffer hurt or sickness again," said the Warden, with a smile.

Next, Faramir sent a message to Éowyn explaining his departure. He did not take his leave in person. He was not sure how she would react to speaking to the son of a suicide, which he would not hide from her even if it were possible. He was also unsure whether the taint would mean that he would never offer himself in marriage, and wished to save her the embarrassment of having to indicate to him that his suit was entirely unacceptable. "Do not abandon hope of the Lady of Rohan either," was Gandalf's comment, but Faramir felt too shaken to be sure of what he could offer, irrespective of her reaction to the full knowledge of his circumstances.  
Húrin of the Keys was summoned, and gave him the keys to the Closed Door, and also the spare set of his father's keys.

Then Faramir set out on the short walk to Rath Dinen.

Author's Note:  
"My heart was filled with grief and with pity." is how Faramir describes to Frodo in Ithilien his reaction to seeing Boromir's funeral boat, in _The Two Towers._


	16. At the citadel

From the gate Faramir could see the devastation below, a dark patch of dirty grey between the gleaming white of the various houses of the dead. He wondered if he was going to be sick. He passed down the tortuous road, and came to where once the House of the Stewards had stood. There was little to find. The fire had made the marble into lime, which, with the rain that put out the fire, had destroyed almost everything that had not perished in the flames. He climbed the steps and stood where the porch had been, surveying the ruin. The burned remains of all his line lay before him, and he felt bereft of any anchor in the world as he looked out over the devastation. _My poor father,_ he thought,_ meeting his death in this. Would that I had returned unhurt from Osgiliath!_ His hand strayed absently to his side._I have been healed of my hurts, but they killed my father. For my father the arrow was truly poisoned, with despair. Would that he had lived!  
Father, now, against hope, we look out in victory to a future filled with promise. Would that you had not chosen to remain forever in defeat and sundered us! There was no love halved. I loved you then and I mourn you now with all my heart, my father, my beloved father, Denethor! _  
Faramir lifted his face, his eyes closed. His cries, of sorrow and of loss, went up to the sky as he bewailed his father.

It was nearly noon when Faramir staunched his tears and rose from where he had lain in grief. Calm now but desolate, he made his way along the winding road back up to the sixth circle. He stopped abruptly at the gate. Outside was a large crowd; mostly soldiers but there were some women and children and old men for the people had started to return to their city. They looked at him with faces like his own: calm but tear-stained.  
"What is this, my people?" asked Faramir. A man of the citadel guard stepped forward and bowed.  
"My lord steward, your cries were heard; and we come to mourn our lord with our steward for until now he has not been properly mourned," he said.  
Faramir drew a deep breath.  
"It is no more than his due, for he was a great and noble lord. I mourn both my lord and my father and that I may mourn with you comforts me; and I thank you for it," he said.  
"I doubt if this will be the only time you will hear me mourn him," he added sadly, "but now I must go; for other duties call me."  
He locked the door behind him and went next to the citadel.

The guard at the gate greeted him with a smile. "It is good to see you back on your feet again, my lord," he said.  
"It is good to be back on my feet again," answered Faramir. He exchanged a few words further as was his custom then made his way across the courtyard feeling the tension rising within him. He went first to the Hall of the Kings and looked silently at the empty black chair raised on its step.  
The noon-day bells rang and he knew he should eat. He turned and approached one of the servants hidden in the shadows at the side of the hall.  
"Bring my nuncheon to the walls; I would take it outside today. I will be eating alone," he said briefly.

It seemed very bright and warm in the sun after the coolness of indoors and he blinked in the sudden light. He paused by the pool and let the water of the fountain drip from the branches of the tree onto his fingers, then he brought his hand to his breast in salute. There was comfort even in a dead tree; for it was the tree from whose branches his father had received blessing, as had Boromir, and all of his House for a thousand years or more.

He looked out east over the wall. There were no clouds or haze at all over Mordor, which still seemed strange; and the Ephel Duath now seemed to cast less shadow over beautiful Ithilien. Joy rose up in his heart at the thought that perhaps this would become usual; that for his sons perhaps the Ephel Duath would be just mountains, like the White Mountains, and that Mordor would no longer cast shadows over men's hearts and lives and the fumes that poisoned the air would be no more. Mount Doom he could not even see any more; all its height had been destroyed in the fall of its master. He looked out over a re-created world, it seemed, and bright fountains of hope sprang up in his heart. Then suddenly he noticed small birds swooping and darting below him. _The swallows have returned! _he thought with delight. _I must tell … _

His smile vanished. _They are dead, _he thought._ The ones to whom I talk about the swallows are dead. _His gaze dropped to the embrasure; and then tears obscured his vision and he could not see even the stone in front of him. _But Boromir is at peace, _he thought. The thought consoled his reason; but it did not touch the pain in his heart.  
His thoughts about his father's death were much less clear. _He failed; but may there be mercy for one who suffered so! _he concluded sorrowfully.

A servant brought a covered basket and offered it with a silent bow. Faramir accepted it with brief thanks but no extra words. He had noticed that the household was staying out of his way; present in the background but unobtrusive both in words and presence, and he was grateful for it. They had great experience with a grieving steward, he reflected. _My father has been mourning for the last thirty years,_ he thought, sadly. He would call them together later after he had read his father's will.  
The basket was the one he always used; the one that was used for him and for Boromir if they were to eat outside. He sat facing north with a hand on it for a long time before starting his meal, large tears trickling down his cheeks. In time he staunched his tears and started on the bread and cheese from the basket. The food was good and the air fresh and clean; and it soothed him.

When he had finished he went to his father's study. That was easier than the Hall of the Kings; it had been used by his uncle, he knew, and his reports were in a neat pile in the centre of the desk awaiting Faramir's attention. He did not, however, attend to them just yet. He went instead to Boromir's chamber. Almost a month had passed since last he had been there, and he sat in his chair; the one he always sat in, opposite Boromir's, and looked at the empty space where his brother was not. Eventually he stood up with a tightness in his breast and spoke softly:  
"O Boromir! So now I go to fulfil the destiny that always I thought would be yours," he said sadly.  
He left the room and locked it; not willing to change it just yet although he knew that change would have to come very soon.

Finally he went to his father's chamber, wandering on the way to it through the smaller rooms where they had eaten and rested; sitting or talking or singing or reading together of an evening.  
He broke the seals on the door. As he went in he was struck first by the smell, though he realised with regret that soon it would fade. He went to his father's bed, and sat on the end of it. His father's bed was much larger than that of either of his sons, but he had always had it made with the pillows to one side, and woe betided any unwitting servant who tried to make the bed symmetrically. Finduilas had had her own rooms, of course, but the space in Denethor's bed was always hers, even once she was no longer there to take it. Faramir lay down in the middle, in neither his father's place nor his mother's, and closed his eyes as a very dim memory resurfaced of wriggling between two large, warm, sleepy bodies, either side of him in that same bed, in the light of very early morning, and arms that embraced him; and being told to lie still if he wanted to be allowed to stay.  
_I am the only living fruit of that union,_ he thought. _O father, mother! May I be worthy of it!_

He knew he would have to sleep there that night; for it was the steward's chamber and those of the steward's children would not be in use for some time now.  
He pulled a pillow towards his head and was suddenly assailed by the smell of his father's hair. A decision was made that he had not realised he was considering. _For today,_ _I do not want clean linens; I want my father,_ he thought. His tears fell onto his father's pillow; he wished they could have fallen onto his father's lap and that thought made them fall even more.  
He brought his own combs and washing and dressing things from his old room, but they went with his father's, not instead of them, on the dressing table. Clothes he would tackle another day. From what was now his old room, he felt unexpectedly detached. It did not feel truly his anymore, for he was not who he had been before.

Now it was time to tackle his duties to the realm. He returned to his father's study and sat at the desk. His father's will was kept in the bottom drawer on the right, he knew. He drew it out and broke the seals.  
The will was brief and impersonal and contained no surprises. Denethor clearly had not changed it since Boromir's death, but his sons had known what it contained. There were small largesses to all the household servants, to the citadel guard and a few small things left to friends from his youth and to his valet, but otherwise everything was left to Boromir, and if he died without issue, to Faramir.

He called together the whole household and addressed them in the Hall of the Kings, thanking them for their loyalty and service and informing them of his father's largesse. Afterwards he summoned the head of the household.  
"Did any of the household die during the war, Brandir?" he asked.  
"Yes, lord," he answered, "the Lord Denethor's esquire, Cirion, and …" He stopped abruptly and flushed a deep red, suddenly looking very uncomfortable.  
"You may speak to me of everything that has taken place," said Faramir gravely. "Mithrandir has told me the full tale of my father's despair and madness, and the deeds which it caused him to commit and to command." A momentary expression of relief crossed Brandir's face, but he still he seemed ill at ease and unwilling to speak. "Six men bore my body to Rath Dinen, did they not?" continued Faramir.  
"Yes, lord," he replied.  
"How many returned?" said Faramir.  
"Four, lord," answered Brandir awkwardly.  
"Who died?" asked Faramir.  
"Malvegil and Beren, lord," he said nervously.  
"Beren!" exclaimed Faramir. Then he closed his eyes and breathed out slowly. "Poor man! Poor men," he said in grief.  
"Lord, he did not…" said Brandir, but Faramir silenced him with a wave of his hand.  
"You do not need to speak soft words to comfort me. I know what it was to displease the Lord Denethor; and I do not hold it against them that they followed the commands given to them by their rightful lord." He sighed. "Let their portions of my father's largesse be sent to their families. You have my leave to go."

Faramir returned soon to his father's study and drew out pen and ink. His first duty was to write to the king and he did so in his own hand.

_To the Lord Elessar, Aragorn son of Arathorn, from the Lord Steward of Gondor, Faramir son of Denethor, greetings._

_I take up now my authority as steward of Gondor; and at this time I offer you my thanks and my praise. My thanks I offer firstly for my own life and health which are now fully restored to me; and secondly in time but not in rank, I beg you to accept my thanks and my praise for the salvation of Gondor and her people, for whom I speak. You have bought us not merely victory for a time, but have enabled the downfall of the dark lord for all ages; and by your help in battle both before the Gate of the city and before the Black Gate you have allowed Minas Tirith and her people to live to see it, while from your hands we have received healing for our wounds._  
_My chair is placed beneath an empty throne; a throne which has stood empty for many centuries, yet ever have we remembered our king. It is my earnest hope that very soon that throne will be filled and the long vigil of Gondor and her steward will be rewarded with the return of her king._  
_I beg that you should make known to me your wish regarding whatever matter in which I can be at your service._

_Faramir_

The letter went immediately with a messenger to Cormallen. He would await the king's reply and in the meantime restore and prepare the city as he could for her king's return in triumph. But he had many duties, not all as joyful as preparing to welcome the king. He drew his uncle's reports to him and started to read.

_All opinions are gratefully received, whether positive or negative. Do let me know what you think, even if you don't like it! - Artura_


	17. In the days following

Next morning Faramir was again in Rath Dinen surveying the mess and wondering what to do about it. He thought of a tomb; but it would have to be huge. The remains of his longfathers could no longer be distinguished from those of the building. There were also the practical problems. He would not have workmen with shovels moving the remains of the bodies of all of his line; but he could not do all of it himself. The labour would be too great for one man, and a man with many other duties at that; and he wondered how one could possibly lay to rest in honour and love a mess of sludge and rubble of stone and bones. He sat in thought and wept. He decided in the end to wash it all away; to let the ashes soak into the ground as the bodies of his men and his friends dead in battle would fade to become one with the earth. It was fitting; yet he wept still more bitterly at the knowledge that he would be destroying the last traces of all of his line. He would keep anything he found of metal; and pieces of bone large enough to recognise he would retrieve and bury. At least there was water available; for the aqueduct that was the city's main supply ran through Rath Dinen, and he decided that he would need to use one of the leather hoses that were part of the equipment of the city fire brigade. It would be, perhaps, two days' work or four half-days; and he would start the next day, which would leave time for the practical arrangements. Meanwhile, there were all the other duties of the rule of the city to which he must attend.  
Notices were put up in the messes of the companies of the citadel guard.

_"The Lord Faramir, Steward of Gondor, will labour in Rath Dinen at the House of the Stewards tomorrow and in the days following. He has need of assistance with the labour and in addition will post a guard of honour for the dead of his line. Any man who will volunteer for these duties should report to the captain of his company by noon today for further instructions._

Faramir rose before dawn. He dressed in clothes of mourning, as for a funeral; in long, sombre, ceremonial robes. The guards carried for him the box of polished wood that he had prepared containing fine linen cloth in which he would wrap the bones of his kin, and another for jewellery and other metal objects that might have survived the fire unchanged. He was painfully aware that it was most likely that any bones he might find would be his father's; since the older, embalmed bodies would be much more easily destroyed by fire.  
He would use no tools but the water and his hands. The guards helped him move the heavy hose behind him and pumped the water; but the washing he did himself. He started in a corner near the street and it was only once ground and stone was washed clean, all ash washed into the earth, that he would tread on any place or allow the large pieces of stone to be moved away. Occasionally damaged jewels were found, but initially there were few bones. Some small pieces he lifted, unwilling to examine too closely whether they were remains of bone or wood.

The second morning he continued washing the ground, but knew he was moving nearer to the more recently used tables. Then he found the golden knob from the rod of stewardship. As his eyes lighted on it he stifled a cry.  
"Captain?" asked a guard. Faramir shook his head and met the man's gaze.  
"This is my duty; I must fullfill it," he answered unsteadily. "Bring hither the chest you guard for me. Soon I will need it."  
As he had feared, the water washed away ash and left half-burned bones. He lifted each in a cloth and wrapped it before laying it in the chest, torn between revulsion and love. He wept freely as he collected the remains of his father's body, suppressing all thought, for there was no thoughtful response to such horrors. His father's rings he collected and laid in the other chest. As he washed away ash a dark globe was revealed to one side of his father's body where it had fallen in the flames.

Faramir recognised the seeing stone and considered what to do with it. There should be no danger in touching it, he thought, now that the dark lord had fallen, although the thought of seeing the world through it did not appeal to him. In any case it could not lie in Rath Dinen in the ruins and he would have to render it to the king. He rinsed off the ash and lifted it. It was unexpectedly heavy and he asked two guardsmen to bring closer the chest he had brought for it.

He was unprepared for what happened next. The stone seemed to glow from within and as he moved to lay it carefully in the case his gaze, resting on it, saw his father's hands as if they were pressed against it from the other side of the stone. Love and joy flared momentarily in his heart at this sight of his father living; but to his horror flames rose round the hands and they were burned as he watched, twisting and withering before his eyes, the flesh shrivelling as it was consumed.  
Faramir gasped. With great effort he managed to lay down the stone in the case without dropping it; then his legs went from under him and he sat heavily on the ground. He leaned on his hands, fighting the vomit that rose in his throat, for he would not defile the Hallows in such a way.

A guard hurriedly knelt his side.  
"Lord, are you well?" he asked. Faramir groaned; his head dropped. The guard caught him in his arms.  
"The lord steward is taken ill! We must bear him to the leeches!" he cried in alarm.  
"Nay! Wait, Ornendil!" said Faramir hoarsely. "Give me a moment to rest and I shall be well." He tried to sit up but he swayed. His face was drawn as in pain; white and covered with sweat; and he was trembling. Ornendil put his arms round him again and he leaned against his shoulder gratefully, gasping for breath with his eyes closed.  
"Are you sure, lord?" asked the man doubtfully. To Ornendil Faramir looked as if he was on the point of collapse. He nodded faintly and took a several deep breaths. He opened his eyes and a little colour started to return to his face.  
"Would you take a draught of wine, lord?" asked Ornendil. He took a flask from his belt, removing the stopper. Faramir took the proffered flask with shaking hand and drank deep. He wiped his mouth and sat up; then he put his head in his hands for a moment before sitting up again.  
"What ails you, lord?" asked Ornendil. Faramir shuddered.  
"My father's hands burned against the palantír, and I have seen it," he said.  
"I must cover it," he continued wearily. "I would not wish that sight on any other." He pushed himself to his feet and closed the casket in which the palantír had been laid.  
"But the labour must continue however hard the toil," he said, and picked up the hose from where he had laid it to return to his work.

It was with relief that he saw the time come when the sun had climbed high in the sky and it reached the hour he had determined for him to stop for the day. The chest containing the bones he locked and laid at the edge of the ruins of the House where there was a corner of the wall still standing. The box of jewels went to his study, and the palantír he carried carefully in its box up to the high chamber where was its stand. The black cloth that usually covered it was abandoned in a corner, in a manner most unlike his father's usual tidy ways.  
He considered how to replace the stone. It was too heavy to lift through a cloth for fear of dropping it, so there seemed no alternative but to touch it, and he did not think he could put it back in its high stand by feel alone. He braced himself for the sight that was likely to meet his eyes, opened the lid of the chest and lifted the palantír. Its weight was a useful distraction but he knew too well the scene that was being played in front of him even if he chose to give it little attention.  
He stepped back to catch his breath once it was in place, when the next problem occurred to him. It was not sufficient that it should be on its stand; it also needed to be orientated correctly. He wondered whether it had been damaged by the fire, and whether it still worked properly, and decided reluctantly that he needed to find out. The palantír was part of the king's patrimony, and if his father had damaged it the king would have to be told and warned of the sight that met one who looked into it. He was not sure if he would be able to work out how to control it, but at least he should set it up properly. He stepped up to the stone and laid his hands on it. It was cool to the touch; and with a long exhalation he opened his eyes. The fire filled the globe to meet him, but he set aside the image of the torment of those beloved hands and turned his mind to the snowy peaks of the White Mountains. He saw them upside down, and facing north. He turned the globe, sighting peaks of mountains in the stone against the same peaks that he could see out of the windows of the chamber. After each glance away he had to re-summon the image in the stone, thrusting away the fire to produce the image he desired, checking the orientation in all directions. He did not find it particularly difficult to summon the images he needed but he did find it very tiring; and by the time he had it re-aligned to his satisfaction he was extremely weary. He spent a little time looking towards the south, down Anduin, and then to Ithilien, focussing on scenes he knew well. Its sight appeared to be able to be moved from place to place, and to show detail as he desired. So far as he could tell, once one penetrated the scars his father's last deed had marked on it, the stone seemed to be functioning as it should; but never having used one before he could not be sure. He would, however, have to warn the king of the horrible images it now bore.

The dining room where he had been accustomed to eat with his father and his brother felt very empty at nuncheon; and his meal was sad and lonely.  
He had always liked his father's hands. They held pen or book, harp or cup, horse's reins or boat's tiller, guiding and holding the realm with the same consummate skill with which he could steer a small boat on the waves. They would curl round steward's rod or sword hilt or chessman with grace and ease. They had been beautiful hands; capable hands; hands that guided, and hands that blessed and soothed with a gentle touch for which Faramir longed. _And the last time they touched me, I did not know it,_ he thought desolately.

He wished with all his heart that his duty had been other than to have had to see the destruction of those hands that he had loved; but he would not have any other tend his dead however painful might be the duty that love imposed. He hoped, too, that it might, later, console him; that in time the knowledge of love expressed might be a comfort.

The king's hands were a little like his father's, thought Faramir. Perhaps, when those hands guided the realm, his dining room would not always be so empty. He allowed himself to wander away from grief in a pleasant day-dream with the white lady of Rohan as his wife; and children seated down the sides of the table. He finished his wine and laid down the cup firmly, leaving his dream. It had been very pleasant and still warmed his heart; but he was uncomfortably aware that she appeared to have failed to notice his efforts at wooing. She seemed to find his company pleasant; but he had no idea whether she regarded him as anything more than the ruler of her nation's most important ally with whom it was expedient to have friendship and understanding for the benefit of both; and she had not reacted at all that he could discern to his only thinly veiled declarations of his desires. He found his unaccustomed inability to read the situation a great frustration; but her presence was sweet beyond almost all else and he rejoiced to see her, even if he was not sure that she felt any more inclined to wed him than any other man of her acquaintance; and she certainly did not appear to wish to wed for the sake of being wedded in itself. He did not, however, wish to fall too far into a hopeless dream, and kept what guard he could on his heart. He knew very clearly where he wished his heart to go, but he would not allow himself to go very far down that path until he had some idea of whether his love, if offered, was likely to be welcomed.

He wondered, too, whether she regarded him as tainted by his father's suicide. It was possible, he concluded, that she had in fact known for far longer than he the full circumstances of his father's death; and her lack of response to his approaches was due to the fact that, while she might like him personally, she would not give any serious consideration to marrying the son of a suicide, however exalted his position. Nonetheless, he delighted in her company and he decided to visit that evening, if he could find the time. But his duties were onerous.

The most urgent problem was that of how to house and feed the returning people whose homes in the large and populous first circle had been destroyed. The next was the farmers of the Pelennor, whose lands must be sown very soon if there was to be sufficient food for the following winter, but there was also the necessity of grazing for the many thousands of horses which had come with the Rohirrim. Then there was the king; he must consider what he would require, and when he would come. At least the royal apartments were already arranged, re-made according to the old pattern when the white tower had been re-built some three hundred years before, and the furnishings had been inspected and replaced or repaired as needed every twelve years. He would need to check when it had last been done, and the king might wish to change things in any case. The coronation, too, would have to be different after a space of almost a thousand years, and he would have to correspond with the king regarding his wishes.

The stream of people who wished to see him seemed endless and often he worked late into the night. He walked throughout the city to see the damage for himself and assess its severity, prioritising repairs to water supplies, drainage and roads. Those of the soldiers who were fit were put to work under the direction of such masons and engineers that could be found, and the city rang with calls and the sounds of tools from dawn to dusk. He sent messengers throughout the land to proclaim the downfall of the dark lord and the return of the king; announcing also with sorrow the passing of Denethor and his own accession to the stewardship; urging all those of Minas Tirith and Anórien to return, and others to come who wished to see the king. For all that it would multiply the problems of food, the city was well stored and it was important, Faramir thought, that as many as possible should see and welcome the king on his return.

Thought of the king lifted his heart. It had been an unaccustomed way to make a man's acquaintance; an intimate touching of minds before ever he had seen the man's face with bodily eyes. The king was not flawless; no man was; but when the reality so matched his longings it made him love the king in the flesh as easily as he had loved the king of his childhood imaginings who would come to restore Gondor. As he had grown older, the king returning to smite the dark lord as Elendil had done had seemed less and less likely, but he had cherished the childhood dream in his heart; clung to hope; and now the king had returned and his dream had become reality.  
His own future, of course, was very uncertain, but he found it did not concern him. Without the king his only future could have been death; or misery under the yoke of the dark lord, forced to see for his greater torment the destruction of all he held dear. With the king, his life was restored to him and that which he loved was safe, and he had hope that he would be allowed to serve the king. He saw well that he could have been regarded as an obstacle to the king's return; and it would have been very easy for the king to have let him die and thereby eliminated the threat he could have posed. But he had not done so; and he seemed the true heir of the best and noblest of kings of Gondor. What the future held was unknown; but he found he could trust very easily, and rejoice in gladness.

He did think, however, that it would be wise to know more before he thought of marriage. What sensible woman, he asked himself, would consider any proposition he could offer when his position, possessions and future occupation were entirely unknown? Éowyn of Rohan would not marry him for his position, he was sure; as the sister of the king of Rohan and slayer of the witch-king her own was both high and secure, but he felt he could not ask her to bind herself to him without her knowing what she was likely to be undertaking. In any case, he did not intend to ask unless he had some hope of a positive answer. The good of the realm must be always his concern, and he did not wish to cause problems by any embarrassment stemming from a refused proposal of marriage and consequent cooling of friendship between Gondor and the Mark. The future of Rohan was, of course, as uncertain as his own. He thought it most unlikely that the king would demand Calenardhon of him, but it was possible in theory. Whether such considerations were at all influencing Éowyn he did not know, but most dearly he hoped he could win her! For all the uncertainties, his heart lifted even to think of her.

In some ways, he reflected, it was as if life had been inverted. All his life there had been joys, sometimes great joys, but in the background and arching over all had been threat and darkness and suffering against which he had to fight constantly. Now, although there were still great sorrows in his heart, shining over all was the sun risen; joy and peace suffusing all and warming the earth to make beautiful things flourish once more.

Each night he went to his rest in his father's bed, now his bed, and he found it comforting to sleep surrounded by his father's belongings and enveloped in his father's smell. His pillows he placed in the middle of the bed and in his dreams he was held and carried in loving embrace, kissed and caressed, and he felt safe; despite pain in the background of which he was only half-aware. Sometimes it seemed that he lay in darkness unable to move; aware of nothing save a hand which held his own and to which he clung desperately; although his fingers would not close tightly as he wished them to do and he feared that he would be abandoned, unable to prevent the hand from being taken away; but it was not, and gradually his fear ebbed away. Sometimes it seemed that his head lay on the breast of one who loved him and kissed him softly. Sometimes it seemed in these dreams that he was in the arms of one who knew of his grief and his sorrow; and the arms comforted him and soothed his distress. When he woke, on occasion he found tears on his cheeks but always, after these dreams, he woke with peace in his heart.

The steward's rod was to be re-made with the old golden knob that he had found in Rath Dinen. The dark lord had struck hard against Gondor; had destroyed many things and attempted to destroy many more; but all things damaged were being restored and re-made, the steward's rod among them.  
The new staff was smoothed and painted bright white, the colour of his House, and Faramir received it with joy. He had delayed his oath by a few days until the rod had been ready and he had dispensed with all ceremony possible; he did not wish for the swearing of his oath to be compared to the king's forthcoming coronation and he wished to channel the attention of the people towards the celebration of the return of the king rather than the accession of a steward whose rule would last a few weeks at most. Húrin of the Keys was his witness as he knelt at the foot of the steps to the throne and swore to serve faithfully as steward of Gondor and 'hold rod and rule in the name of the king, until he shall return'.

It was several days before he managed to find time to visit the white lady of Rohan. He found her in the garden standing on the walls and his heart soared at the sight of her. He called to her gladly, but she did not return his warmth in her greeting. She seemed paler than before; and sad, but distant. She acquiesced in his suggestion that he should visit again in a few days, but he felt as if he was being received as the steward of Gondor making a visit of courtesy to the princess of Rohan, and the deep connection between them that he had felt growing as they had conversed day after day now seemed diminished. He went away disappointed; overly disappointed, he felt, but perhaps the guard he had tried to place on his heart had not been quite as impenetrable as he had intended. The admiration and awe she felt for Aragorn he understood; they were not that dissimilar from his own feelings for the king but he wondered whether those feelings and the pain at the rejection of her offer of marriage would on her part stand in the way of the growth of love for any other. Or perhaps, he mused, she did not find suitable qualities in him; in which case he hoped she would find happiness with another in the future; but still he delighted in her company and would enjoy it as much as possible while she remained in the city. There was, however, one thing that struck him as strange: that she did not go to Cormallen to celebrate with the host. Quite possibly she did not wish to see Aragorn in his triumph; but he dared hope that perhaps she stayed in the city to be near him, in which case his suit was not wholly in vain. He left the matter to one side; time would tell, although his heart chafed at the delay.

That evening a messenger arrived from Cormallen asking the steward of Gondor to visit the Lord Aragorn in secret; for he wished that they should take counsel together. Next morning Faramir left early for Ithilien; both horse and rider eager.

Author's note:  
I know Tolien says that: "Faramir did not go [to Cormallen].", but I have taken this to mean that he did not go to stay there and join the party, rather than that he did not leave Minas Tirith at all. It seems to me inconceivable that the coronation as described in ROTK could have happened without considerable advance planning between Aragorn and Faramir. The planning could have been done by the exchange of several letters, but it seems to me that it would have been easier to do it in person. That theory is convenient for this story, so I decided to send Faramir on a brief visit to Cormallen, to plan the coronation and do other things.


	18. My lord the king

Two days later, one of the guards at the door of the tent admitted a cloaked and hooded figure who immediately put back his hood. Aragorn rose and held out his hand to Faramir with a warm smile. He knelt and kissed it joyfully.  
"Greetings, Steward of Gondor. Come and sit with me, and take refreshment after your long ride," said Aragorn. He raised Faramir to his feet and embraced him; then led him to a seat at the table, called for wine and sat near him.

"I wish to hear news of the city, and to speak of Gondor and of the House of Húrin and the House of Elendil. But first I will take the part of healer. How are your wounds?" he asked.  
"Healing well, lord. I do not think there is thing untoward to report," answered Faramir with a smile.  
"I am very pleased to hear so," said Aragorn. "But may I see the wound in your side?"  
"By all means," said Faramir. It had, in fact, become slightly uncomfortable although he had not noticed it until he had arrived at the camp. He took off his cloak and hood, unfastened his belt and started to lift his tunic, but found the bandages had slipped and were lying at his waist, while his shirt was spotted with blood.  
"I need to see properly, so your garments must come off, I am afraid," said Aragorn. He eased Faramir's tunic and shirt over his head and bade him lean forward with his arms on the table while he examined the wound. It was healing, but had started to bleed a little with the exertion of the ride.  
"It is healing well, as you said, but it needs re-dressing," said the king. He called for hot water, draping a blanket over Faramir's shoulders while they waited.

Re-dressing the wound happened every day, but for Faramir it seemed different when it was the king tending him. The warm, gentle and very skilful hands reminded him of his father, not that his father had dressed Faramir's wounds himself more recently than when those wounds had been grazed knees and he had sat on his father's lap for it to be done. Then it occurred to him that these hands had arrayed his brother for his funeral; and the thought that Boromir's body would have been tended with such gentle love made his heart fill with gratitude. _If these hands arrayed Boromir's body as they tend me then no-one could have disposed him with more gentleness or care; and for all our love, not I, not Denethor, could have treated him more tenderly, _he thought.

Out of the corner of his eye Aragorn caught a momentary glint of reflected light. He looked more carefully and saw another tear fall from behind the black curtain of Faramir's hair. He paused in concern.  
"Faramir?" he said. Faramir raised his head and looked round.  
"My lord?" he asked. His eyes were full of tears.  
"Are you in pain? I had not expected this to hurt," he said.  
"Nay, lord; it does not. Your hands are very gentle. But they remind me of my father's hands; and these same hands that tend me tended my brother. My heart is full of love and gratitude to you; and I think of them both, and I weep," he answered.  
"They are most worthy of it," replied Aragorn. He continued to wash the wound; then bound a new dressing in place and handed Faramir his clothes.

As Faramir dressed, Aragorn poured wine for them both. He sat at the table and gestured for Faramir to join him.  
"Now that I have seen the wound in your side, tell me: how are the wounds in your heart?" said Aragorn once Faramir was seated.  
"Also healing well, lord," he said. "Never in my life have I known peace. I have wondered often whether I would live to see the destruction of all I hold dear; not since childhood had I thought that I would live to see the return of my king and the destruction of the dark lord. We have paid a heavy price for victory; the struggle has been bitter and the wounds received deep and painful, but not vital; and I take comfort in the knowledge that those who have died would have rejoiced to see this day come. So it seems to me that I should remember them, and yet rejoice, as they would have wished to do had they been still by my side.  
"And your father? Your brother?" asked Aragorn, gently. Faramir gave a deep sigh. The ache in his breast re-awakened.  
"That grief is still very near, lord. I hope that one day my memories of them may bring me more joy than pain; but forgetting would be worse than the worst pain of their loss, so for the present I will mourn and grieve for them, while knowing at least that there is more in the world than pain and loss; since now we have hope and a new and beautiful day has dawned," he said. He smiled.  
Aragorn looked deeply into the keen eyes of the steward and was reassured by what he saw.  
"You too mourn, lord," observed Faramir.  
"I do," agreed Aragorn, "but as there is for you, there is for me more in the world than pain and loss alone. But you are healing; and that is good," he said. He poured more wine for each of them.  
"Now: to other matters," said Aragorn. "I will not take advantage of a man barely waking and at death's door in claiming my throne, nor will I have it said that I did so.  
"You are now well and strong; and as Ruling Steward of Gondor you have sworn to hold your realm until the king shall come again. Others have hailed me king; but King Eärnur left his kingdom in the charge of his steward; and it is from his steward that the king comes to claim his throne.  
"I make claim now to the throne of Gondor. I am the king who has come again, and I will give to you my proofs. With my hands I have brought healing of the Black Breath. The sons of Elrond who ride with me will attest to my descent, father-to-son from Isildur, and from Anárion through Fíriel of Gondor; for their father has known Isildur and all of my line, and I bear the Star of the North. I have the sword of Elendil, re-forged, and with that sword I have been victorious in battle." He laid Andúril on the table between them.  
"Will you receive me to rule over you as your king returned?" he said.  
Faramir knelt before him.  
"My lord king, I accept your claim with all my heart; and I will yield the rule of Gondor to you at your word," he said. Aragorn took his hand with a broad smile and raised him to sit back in his chair.  
"Well, I would ask you not to do it in this moment. Let that wait until the coronation, the arrangements for which I wish to plan with you later on.  
"I will speak now of the House of Húrin. You have served Gondor faithfully for many centuries. What would you of me, by way of reward?" asked Aragorn.  
"My House has done naught but its duty, my lord. No reward is called for," answered Faramir.  
"What of the ancient oath sworn by all in the service of Gondor, to which their lord vows to return that which is given: fealty with love, valour with honour? You and your House have shown both, Arandur; and it seems to me that you have merited both love and honour from the king. Your House has served Gondor faithfully for well-nigh a thousand years, Lord Faramir. But tell me: what are your hopes for the future?" said Aragorn.  
Faramir sat back and took another sip of his wine. A slight smile played on his lips. "First to serve my king, but then: an end to war; peace; books; music; perhaps a garden; marriage and children; that all things may grow in beauty, be restored not destroyed …" His speech tailed off into thought.

Aragorn watched him and smiled. "The marriage and the children I will leave you to arrange for yourself, but much of the rest fits very well with my plans.  
"I do not intend to do away with the office of steward. My steward will be my chief counsellor, my regent if I travel north or out of my realm, or if I am incapacitated, and the senior captain of my army under myself, or my son if I have a son who comes to an age and skill to command himself. I want you as my steward. I know of none better fitted, by lineage, by skill, by loyalty or by my trust in him. I will also to make the office hereditary from father to son, so the heirs of your body will serve the heirs of mine as long as our lines endure. What say you?"  
Faramir swallowed hard. "My lord, I shall serve you faithfully in whatever capacity you wish."  
"That I know, but I would have my servants be willing as well as dutiful. What do you will?" said Aragorn.  
"I will to serve you as your steward, and if given the chance I shall do so joyfully for the whole of my life," answered Faramir.  
Aragorn smiled. "Then let it be so. I wish also to honour your House for its long and faithful service. I intend to create you and your line after you Prince of Ithilien, and have you dwell in Emyn Arnen in sight of the city. Will you make your garden in Ithilien?"  
"Most happily, my lord."  
"Then so be it," he said.  
"Now let us turn to the city – what is the extent of the damage? Has anything been started by way of repairs?"  
"As you know, the Gate of the city is utterly destroyed;" said Faramir, "most of the first circle has burned and about a quarter of the second all told; water supplies and drainage to both have been disrupted. The repairs to the basic water supply should be completed within a week from now, and there is already in place a wooden barrier to close the Gate at night. After that the …"

As they talked, Aragorn felt that Faramir gave him ample proof of his suitability for the office his descent had laid upon him. Faramir had taken up his duties but a few days before, yet he seemed to have a very clear grasp of the scope of the problems and the tasks in hand. They planned, and talked; Faramir made copious notes to take back with him.

"There is also damage in the Hallows, my lord," said Faramir, carefully. "The House of the Stewards was reduced to ash and rubble. I have cleared the site of the House but the scar is obvious, I am afraid." Aragorn looked at him with disquiet, but Faramir's face was without expression of any kind.  
"What of the dead of your line?" he asked.  
"Almost all was consumed by the flames except for the bones of my father, of which some remain; and those I have gathered. I will bury them under the floor of the house, I think," said Faramir. Aragorn put his hand on Faramir's arm in a silent gesture of comfort. There was nothing he could say.  
"There is also the seeing stone of Minas Anor, lord," Faramir continued. "I have replaced it on its stand in the tower, but it seems my father's last deeds have scarred it. It appears to work properly still, although I am not sure as I have never used one before, but on looking in it the first image is that of my father's hands in flame, and it is to that image that it always returns if not otherwise directed. I wished to warn you of it before you were in a position to use it; it is not a sight I would wish on any man," he ended.  
"Yet worse still for you than for any other man. That was a brave deed, Faramir," said Aragorn.

Aragorn and Faramir broke off their speech together as a guard entered the tent and announced the arrival of Prince Imrahil. His face lit up with surprise and delight at the sight of Faramir, but he bowed and kissed Aragorn's hand greeting him before he turned to greet his nephew.

"Faramir! The king said I would be pleased to meet his guest for the day-meal, and he spoke most truly!" Imrahil took Faramir in his arms and kissed him. He held him close, rejoicing in the strength with which his nephew could return his embrace; then he stepped back and held him at arm's length, looking him up and down and searching carefully in his face. Satisfied, he smiled again. "You are well?" he asked. Faramir smiled broadly in return.  
"I am well," he said, and again they clasped each other in joyful embrace.  
"And you, my uncle, are you well? And my cousins?" asked Faramir.

Aragorn watched with approval as they exchanged news and trivia with comfortable familiarity. Such close affection between the steward of Gondor and the Prince of Dol Amroth boded well for peaceful and prosperous rule in the future.  
A servant laid the table and brought food for their meal and they sat together eating and talking until all was finished. As the servants cleared the table, Aragorn rose.  
"I intend to go to visit the wounded and tend those who need it, and I expect I shall be gone for at least an hour. Imrahil, Faramir: no doubt you will have no doubt much about which to speak. I would meet you at your tent, Imrahil, when I am done to bring Faramir back here, for there is much else regarding the city about which Faramir and I must talk before we sleep tonight."

Imrahil and Faramir bowed in acknowledgement and took their leave of the king. All three left the tent, and although it was not at all cold, Faramir lifted his hood as they passed through the camp to where Imrahil's tent was pitched. Imrahil looked at him curiously.  
"Are you here in secret?" he asked.  
"If few know that I am here then I may see the king privately not publically, and it would be a pity to pre-empt later ceremonies," answered Faramir.

As they arrived at the prince's tent his guards stood aside to let them pass in, saluting crisply. The swan ship of his banner flapped lazily in the soft breeze, the colours just discernible in the fading light as it came towards the time to strike the banner for the night. The curtains of blue and white silk closed behind them as they entered, their eyes adjusting to the dimmed light. A servant came in to light the two lamps which hung from the ceiling, casting a yellow light which made the pale blue sides of the tent look slightly green. The thyme upon which the tent had been pitched was crushed as the men moved about on the painted cloth that covered the floor; and the scent filled the air.

Two chairs were placed near each other by a brazier full of glowing embers; and Imrahil poured wine into two decorated silver cups, passing one to Faramir. He invited Faramir to sit with a wave of his hand and laid the jug on a small table within easy reach of them both. Once they were seated, Imrahil stretched out his long legs and looked towards his nephew. The long ride had left Faramir tired; and his limbs were stiffening slightly from the exertion after several weeks going barely further than from the citadel to the first circle of the city and back again. He sighed with appreciation, sipped his wine and leaned back in his chair with his legs towards the fire, absorbing the heat that radiated from the brazier. They sat together in companionable silence for several minutes, then Faramir sat up straighter as if his mind was returning to matters of importance.

"So this is not only the meeting of kinsmen for their enjoyment," said the prince, observing his nephew's change of mien. "Has this been arranged at the king's behest or at yours?" he asked.  
"The king arranged it, but it is opportune. There are questions I wish to ask you although I believe I know your answers already," said Faramir. Imrahil sat still at ease in his chair, but motionless; his face showed renewed concentration as his nephew continued:  
"Do you hold the Lord Aragorn to be the rightful king of Gondor?"  
"I accept his claim without reservation. What say you?" answered Imrahil, regarding Faramir keenly.  
"I am of like mind," he said. "I know full well that were the Lord Aragorn not the rightful king of Gondor, I would not be here to express an opinion on the matter either way," he added drily with a faint smile, then his face became serious.  
"I do not doubt his claim for a moment, but I wonder how it is that he is king," he added thoughtfully.  
"Is it sufficient to be heir of Isildur? Was our judgement of Arvedui wrong? Is that why the new line of kings lasted for only two generations? Or is it that the ancient custom of Númenor holds in Gondor even though we knew it not and his claim is through the only surviving child of Ondoher?  
"However that may be, it is fitting that the king of the kingdom re-united should be heir both of Isildur and of Anárion," he finished.  
"Verily. The sons of Elrond have attested his descent to me, and I have seen the tokens of kingship which he bears," replied the prince.  
"As have I; he showed them to me earlier today," said Faramir.  
"Do you anticipate any opposition to your decision? Have you heard any express a contrary opinion?" continued Imrahil.  
"My father alone," said Faramir. He sat very still, with a sad but resolute expression. "He would see my action as yet another betrayal, I fear, but the decision is now mine and I deem that the rightful king of Gondor has returned. I will choose my king over even my father; for what great evil it would be to try to withhold the kingdom from her rightful lord! Not even at the command of my father would I rule believing myself to be a usurper. Yet maybe he would have changed his mind about the king's claim had he seen him heal his son," said Faramir.

"I believe that is possible, for what better proof could the king give of his good faith than to restore the life of his heir to one who had the power to deny his claim?" said Imrahil. "But I too have heard of no other dissent. Your lead is followed by all, it seems. Many know his healing, while all know that he has saved them in battle and played great part in the destruction of the dark lord. I do not think any will oppose you, or the king.  
"But for Denethor it was made harder by the fact that this matter arose of old. Do you know that the Lord Aragorn has been here in Gondor before now? He is Thorongil," said the prince with a smile. Faramir stared at him in astonishment.  
"Of that I had no idea! Did you know him when you saw him?" he asked in amazement. Imrahil nodded.  
"I did, and no doubt you father did also if he saw him in the palantír." He took another sip of his wine and looked away briefly, as if recalling to mind events long past.  
"Thorongil and your father were close friends until, I am sorry to say, your father's jealousy of him corroded the bond between them and Denethor became Thorongil's enemy. What was in Thorongil's heart I cannot say, for he never opened his heart to me, but it seemed to me that the estrangement between them grieved him. Denethor's new-found enmity towards Thorongil made Ecthelion impatient. Ecthelion discussed the question of Thorongil's true lineage with my father who told me, as his heir, of the steward's deliberations. He declared to my father that he would not have the weal of Gondor compromised by his son's petty jealousies. I have no doubt that he spoke likewise to Denethor, and that those words increased the distance between father and son, while his son's resentment contrasted with Thorongil's notable absence of self-regard may have strengthened Ecthelion's determination to recognise Thorongil's achievements. I know not whether Ecthelion anticipated that Thorongil would in time claim the throne of Gondor in addition to that of Arnor which was indubitably his by right, nor what his response would have been to such a claim; although I think that now, with the proof provided by his healing, Ecthelion would admit his claim even as you have done.  
"My father, too, considered the matter at length and spoke with me concerning it. He concurred with Ecthelion's thoughts, as did I, though the matter never arose between Denethor and me.  
"I have wondered about 'Thorongil' for many years. When he vanished after defeating the corsairs of Umbar the question went into abeyance.  
"Yet, maybe, it was for the best. Another kinstrife would have led to our fall in ruin while Mordor picked over our bones, and dearly as I loved your father, I am not certain that he would not have resisted what he might have seen as Ecthelion disinheriting him, had Thorongil ever claimed the throne while Ecthelion lived, and others might have been emboldened to resist with force of arms if they had even the tacit support of the steward's son. But one can never know what would have happened, and I will not hold against your father's memory that which he might have done," he ended.  
"The stewards would have failed utterly in the trust placed in them had the returning king had to re-conquer his kingdom held against him by his steward," said Faramir. "It is better that my father should have died than that he should have lived and acted thus against his king."  
"For all that he might have said against you, have no doubt of your father's love for you, Faramir," said Imrahil. "Never have I seen a man so broken with grief as was your father when I brought your body back to him."

Faramir leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. He sighed heavily and stared into his cup as he swirled the wine it contained. He took another draught of the pale liquid then glanced up at Imrahil before he spoke, again staring down at the cloth covering the floor.  
"I am glad that I was saved from the pyre; but I pity my poor father in his madness, dying alone, as he thought defeated, friendless and having had his one remaining son taken from him. It grieves me greatly to think that he died believing me treacherous to him, and yet I cannot in conscience act otherwise than I am doing." Imrahil reached out and gripped Faramir's hand.  
"Nor should you act otherwise than you are doing," he answered firmly. He lifted the jug of wine enquiringly. Faramir shook his head, and Imrahil re-filled his own cup. "Your father had, I think, been corrupted by desire for the Ring. But he did not, in fact, act in opposition to the king whereas his opposition to the dark lord was constant and his sacrifices great in the struggle against Mordor throughout all the long years of his rule. But if Aragorn may with honour labour to repair Isildur's fault, then Faramir may labour to repair Denethor's fault," said Imrahil. Faramir smiled.  
"You comfort me," he said, "and the future is brighter now than it has ever been since the dark lord arose out of the wreck of Númenor to trouble the realm of Elendil, for he is gone forever, and the king has returned."  
"Turning to the future," said Imrahil, "I have it on the authority of a seemingly observant Halfling that you may be courting." A faint pink flush spread across Faramir's cheeks and Imrahil watched him with barely concealed pleasure.  
"I think the Halfling was correct when he said that I _may_ be courting. I am not entirely sure. Éowyn of Rohan calls me her friend; and I love her and I would gladly wed her tomorrow given the chance. But I do not know how she sees me; or indeed whether she wishes to wed any man. She has chosen to stay in the city, but she does not seem as keen as I would wish for me to visit her. And I have little time to indulge a short-lived private pleasure, if all her company will be is a sweet dream never to come to fruition," he said. He smiled. "I will let you know as soon as I have any further information as to whether I am courting," he said.  
"By then you will be betrothed, I imagine, at least privately," said Imrahil. He clapped Faramir on the back.  
"May you fare well in your endeavours," he said. "She is very beautiful and very suitable and if she comes to love you as you love her then I could not imagine a better match for you.  
"How is her health? Is she recovering well?"  
"Yes, although she dwells still in the Houses of Healing. When I was there also we walked together in the garden," answered Faramir. Imrahil watched Faramir lovingly as his thought took him far away. Imrahil's thoughts went back then to his own courtship, many years ago and he sat still, lost in memory. Faramir sighed happily, and Imrahil's attention returned to his surroundings.  
"How about you? Are you entirely healed, yet?" he asked.  
"I still have need of more sleep than I do normally and my wound still needs dressings," answered Faramir, "but otherwise I am well, although I am getting a bit out of condition. There is too much to do for me to be able to take as much exercise as I could." Imrahil nodded silently, considering. Voices raised in song wafted into the tent as men rejoiced by a fire in the camp.  
"How is your heart?" he said. His gaze stayed on Faramir's face.  
"Better. The death of one beloved is bitter; and of many at once still more so, but the grief my heart now suffers no longer overwhelms it to destruction," said Faramir. "We have come through a long dark night, but who would be unmoved by the beauty of the morning we now behold? I mourn for the loss of those who have died, but I would render their deaths meaningless and futile if I failed to accept the peace and joy that they died that I might have. Had I received death as a reward for my labours, I would have died in love for my city and my people. It has been others, not me, but the bond of love between us is the same and I accept their gift with joy and gratitude.  
"As for my father, he chose his end. It grieves me greatly, but I must accept his choice. And Boromir my brother …" He broke off and took another sip of his wine. He looked at Imrahil. "What have you been told of the tale of Boromir's death?" he asked.  
"A messenger brought to Dol Amroth a letter from your father telling of his death far from home and the return of his horn cloven in two; then when I came to the city he told me that Boromir had been slain by orc-arrows while defending two Halflings; and that you had seen his body in a boat passing down Anduin to the sea. That is all I know."  
"I believe my father never knew the full tale of his death as it has been told to me. I will tell you, for it is not a tale that can be hidden, but it is a tale full of shame and dishonour," said Faramir, heavily.

Imrahil nearly dropped his cup. He raised an eyebrow and stared at Faramir.  
"Boromir's dishonour?" he asked in bewilderment.  
"Even so," said Faramir. Imrahil shut his eyes.  
"_O Boromir!_" he said. After a moment he passed a hand across his face and looked again at Faramir. "Tell me," he said. "If I must hear such a tale, it is better that I should hear it from you who was his brother."

"At Amon Hen, Boromir tried to take the Ring from Frodo by force," said Faramir quietly. He heard Imrahil's sharp intake of breath. "I discovered this when I met the Halflings in Ithilien, but I tried to keep this knowledge from my father for fear it would break his heart. I am not sure whether I succeeded," he continued.  
"It was in Lórien, I think, that Boromir became aware that he wished to use the ring. He struggled for about six weeks, and finally, at Amon Hen, it proved too sore a trial and he fell.  
"Frodo escaped him, and it seems that he was sorry almost immediately, but he would not tell anyone what he had tried to do. Shortly, after the company split up to search for Frodo, he was sent to protect Meriadoc and Peregrin and they were attacked by orcs in the woods. Protect them he did, with all he had, but they were captured and he was slain.  
"The Lord Aragorn came on him when he was dying, alone in the woods. He owned his deed and his sorrow for it, and the king comforted him as he died. Legolas, Gimli and the king arrayed him for his funeral. They sang for him; and they gave his body to the great river of Gondor at Rauros. It seems that I saw the boat that held Boromir's body as truly it was, and he was at peace; his face was more beautiful even than in life."  
"Alas for poor Boromir! For one so noble and valiant, a fall so low seems yet more grievous," said Imrahil, and he wept.  
"But he escaped at the last," said Faramir. He went on:  
"And hard as it is for me to bear his loss, it seems to me that my brother needed to die; for in dying he could satisfy himself that his remorse was true. Heartily do I wish that he had not fallen, but having fallen, it was a kind fate that ordained his death. He would, I believe, had he lived, have lived in sorrow and guilt, a broken man irredeemably dishonoured in his own eyes, for, once having broken his word, had his remorse been only his word, he would have wondered forever whether he was in secret drawn to evil and whether his word would again prove false at the test. In dying in the defence of his Halfling companions he had the chance to prove, with his deeds, with his body, his utter rejection of evil and of his evil deed. He could die in peace, with faith that his one evil deed would not be the undoing of his people, but he would have lived in torment and quite possibly never been free of it. Such a punishment would have been just, but I would not have had my brother suffer it. Rather, I would suffer the pain of his loss, knowing that he is at peace. You know how greatly I loved him; his loss brings pain at times almost beyond endurance, but I would not have him here and replace my pain with his.  
"In the midst of the pain this comforts me; but I loved him and he is gone."  
Imrahil nodded silently. He reached for Faramir's hand. Suddenly they both felt keenly their loss of Boromir, and they wept.

The voice of the guard at the door interrupted them.  
"The Lord Aragorn!" he announced. They both stood up, hastily drying their eyes, as Aragorn entered the tent. He looked from one to the other; that they had been weeping was obvious.  
"We mourn Boromir, my lord," said Faramir, by way of explanation.  
"Shall we speak of him?" asked Aragorn.  
"Did you not wish to speak of other matters, lord?" asked Faramir hesitantly.  
"There will be time for that later, or tomorrow if need be," said Aragorn.  
"I would like to," said Imrahil. "Will you have some wine, lord?" He summoned a servant to bring more wine and a chair for Aragorn. The cups refilled, they sat. Aragorn was the first to speak.

"I remember Boromir when he was two," said Aragorn. "It was the passing out ceremony of the youngsters who had just finished their basic training, and they were being sworn to the service of the steward in the presence of all the captains. Boromir was there, sitting on Denethor's lap. He had, I think, said 'I want to come!' when his father and grandfather rose from nuncheon to go to the Hall of the Kings, and Ecthelion, who would never refuse him anything, said that he could sit on his father's lap if he promised to be completely quiet. Denethor expected him to go to sleep, so soon after nuncheon, watching the repetition of the vow by each identically-dressed soldier time after time, but he did not. He sat still and straight, concentrating throughout. At the end, after the ceremony was over, he went up to the steward, took his hand and led him back to his chair. Then to everyone's astonishment he knelt on the step, where the soldiers had knelt, laid the toy sword that he always wanted to have with him in Ecthelion's lap and repeated word-for-word the oath the soldiers had just taken. Since the oath had been given, Ecthelion made the reply, and Boromir stood up and walked away as proud as any of the young soldiers earlier in the day. 'You will have a great captain there one day, my son,' said Ecthelion to Denethor, and I had never seen Denethor look so proud as at that moment."  
"That was Boromir's earliest memory," said Faramir fondly. "He always kept that sword. It is still in his chamber, on the wall. Every other toy he shared with me very willingly, save that, for he said that sword was sworn to the service of the steward of Gondor and so was not his to share even with me."  
"For my part, I remember he begged a bow and arrows from me when he was a little older, and I made one for him of willow," said Imrahil. "The next day he was found standing on the citadel wall, having, he said, shot all his arrows into Mordor to slay the dark lord's captains. However, the bow did not have a range sixty miles over the mountains; and by a mischance one arrow went through the window of a house in the sixth circle and landed on the chopping board of a cook. The shriek was loud enough to be heard by the citadel guard.  
"Denethor took him to apologise, and I believe afterwards introduced Boromir to the archery practise grounds!"  
They all laughed. The stories continued, mostly from Faramir and Imrahil although Aragorn spoke of the tales Boromir had told as they journeyed together in the wilds. Sometimes they wept, but the tears brought comfort, not pain. They drank to his memory.  
"Forgive me, my uncle," said Faramir suddenly," but are there any salted almonds? I should like to eat some for love of him."  
"Yes; I should have thought of that!" said Imrahil. He called a servant who brought a large bowl of the salted almonds of which Boromir had been so fond, and they ate with their wine.

No more work was done that day. They sat together talking, until talk faded into silence.

"My heart aches still, but peacefully, almost pleasantly. For the first time since he died, I think, it aches with love for him, not with pain at his loss," said Faramir eventually. He sighed, and great weariness filled him.  
"No more tonight, I think," said Aragorn. "It is time for sleep. Faramir, a bed will be made for you in my tent, if you will sleep there. I wish to take particular care of my newly-recovered steward, and I imagine you do not wish to sleep under the care of the leeches which is the other alternative. I do not wish to expose you to the full rigours of life in camp just yet, even a camp celebrating victories."  
"I believe that this night I could sleep anywhere that I could lay my head, lord," answered Faramir. His eyes stung slightly; he felt very tired.  
"Then where you will lay your head is in a warm and comfortable bed," answered Aragorn. Imrahil looked on approvingly. They rose, and Aragorn and Faramir bade Imrahil goodnight.

After the close warmth of the tent the night seemed fresh and cool. They wrapped their cloaks round them more closely as they walked back to the king's tent under the stars. The scents of the aromatic bushes and herbs around them seemed more pronounced in the dark. Faramir breathed deeply, savouring the smell of Ithilien. It was the first time in his life that he had ever been in Ithilien and not been at war; and he thought its beauty in peace would pierce his heart.  
"It is hard to understand how even the Blessed Realm itself could be more beautiful than Ithilien unmarred," he said softly. Aragorn smiled to himself. To be Prince of Ithilien would suit Faramir very well.  
"It is indeed most fair," he said.

When they arrived an extra bed had been made up already. Aragorn inspected it. "Mine is the more comfortable, I deem, so you will sleep there."  
Faramir was too tired to object and in any case did not mind. He was not sure that he really needed such assiduous care, but Boromir had fussed over him unnecessarily at times, so he was used to it.  
"Despite what you think, you do still need some special care at present, and it matters that you sleep well until you are completely better. I will stop fussing then," said Aragorn.  
Faramir looked at him, startled. He was used to reading others, but rather less accustomed to others being able to read his thought.  
"Am I so easy to read, lord?" he asked.  
"Yes," said Aragorn, "for a fellow Númenorean who knows you intimately." Faramir laughed.  
"I thought it was only my father who could do it," he said.  
They undressed for bed. The king's bed was very comfortable, thought Faramir as he settled himself between the clean sheets. He fell asleep before he had the chance to think any more.


	19. Next Day

Aragorn woke suddenly in darkness. A low moan came from the other bed.

"Faramir?" called Aragorn softly. There was no reply; only another moan. As Aragorn was striking a light a guard entered the tent with a lantern.

"Lord Aragorn?" he said quietly, scanning the tent. "Is all well?" Faramir seemed asleep; and there was no-one else to be seen.

"I think Lord Faramir is having a nightmare; I will call if I need anything," said Aragorn. He had managed to light the small oil lamp by his bed. The guard bowed and withdrew.

Aragorn took the lamp to Faramir's bedside. He was now moaning constantly with tears gleaming in his eyes; his head moved restlessly from side to side. Aragorn sat on the bed, put a hand on Faramir's shoulder and shook him.

"Faramir! Faramir, wake!" he called, then he shook him more vigorously. Suddenly eyes dark with pain stared into his. Then Faramir took a shuddering breath and blinked, seeing Aragorn's face for the first time. His shirt was drenched with sweat.

"You were dreaming, I think," said Aragorn. Faramir nodded and sighed. His eyes closed.

"I watched my father burn." He swallowed hard. "I was standing by; but powerless to move or speak and he burned before my eyes. I saw the anguish in his face; heard his moans and his cry; then as his body contorted and his flesh was consumed, he died." He shuddered and retched; then he lay exhausted. Aragorn took his hand.

"How often have you dreamed this?" he asked. Faramir shook his head.

"Never before. I have dreamed frequently of late; but my dreams have been comforting. In the citadel, sleeping now in the steward's chamber, I am surrounded by my father's belongings and his smell lingers there; often I feel as if I sleep in his embrace.  
"But he is dead and gone and I must bear it: his death was horrible and shameful and he died in great pain; yet it was of his own choosing. And he will not be remembered with honour; he will be called a proud steward who would deny his king and a cruel father who would murder his son. All else, all the good that he did, all the sufferings he endured, will be forgotten; for that is the way of the world," ended Faramir sadly. His face darkened.  
"But let no-one revile him to my face for these deeds; and if any man should _dare_ to do so twice … I … will …" he said menacingly; then he stopped and sighed. "Nay, I will not say it; lest I rue my rash words."

"His death and the manner of it you must bear, certainly, and your fears for his memory may be justified," said Aragorn, "but if you are troubled by dreams you must tell me; for evil dreams can be banished."

"I shall, lord," answered Faramir. "I am sorry to have disturbed your rest."

"Nay; a king should always be there for his subjects when they have need of him," said Aragorn, kissing Faramir's brow. "Goodnight!"

He returned to his own bed; and sleep took them both.

They both woke early, as the morning light seeped into the tent. They broke their fast together and turned immediately to the planning they had left the day before.

By the middle morning as much as could be arranged or planned had been, and Faramir was free to seek out those he most wished to see before he returned to the city. Quite near Aragorn's tent, although far enough away that they would have some peace, lay the lodgings of the hobbits who had been hurt and those of the other members of the fellowship.  
Faramir was shown to a tent where three tiny beds had been made, no more than half the size that a man would need. Tucked up, warm and comfortable in each bed was a figure so small and fragile it looked almost childlike, and Faramir looked on each of them with love. Aragorn had warned him that Frodo and Sam would not wake; since he had caused them to sleep while they healed, while Pippin, although his sleep was natural, was still spending most of his time asleep except for when he was eating.

He went first to Frodo's bed and knelt at his side. His face was pale and bruised still and his hands rested on the coverlets. Faramir looked with pity on the bandaged stump where he was missing a finger and caressed his hand, but staying far enough away from the wound that he would not re-wake the pain. He took Frodo's other hand and held it gently for some time. Then he kissed his brow lovingly and laid the nerveless hand carefully back in place.

By Sam's bed he knelt similarly. He too was deeply asleep and did not stir when Faramir ran his hand gently over his hair. His forehead was a mass of bruises, with an ugly gash in it, now carefully stitched. He bowed to them both in gratitude and reverence, even though they could not know it.

He went then to Pippin's bed. Very carefully he took a tiny hand between his and pressed it gently. Pippin slept on, and Faramir smiled at him and leaned forward to kiss him. As he moved back his hair brushed across Pippin's face and he stirred.

"Merry?" he asked sleepily.

"No, not Merry; Faramir," he answered. Pippin appeared to think about this for a moment with a slight frown; then his eyes flew open.

"My lord steward!" he exclaimed. Then he smiled. "You're better," he said.

"I am; and how is my noble Halfling?" he asked.

"A bit sore," answered Pippin honestly, "but on the mend."

"Very good," said Faramir, then he went on gravely:  
"I owe you my life. I thank you for your deeds," he said. Pippin looked more and more uncomfortable as the implication of Faramir's words sank in.

"Not at all," he stammered. "Are you alright? I mean, your poor father!"

"Indeed so," said Faramir, "but yes; I am alright, thanks to you, Master Peregrin," he added.

"I am very glad you have come here!" said Pippin. Faramir smiled.

"I am not here for long; there is too much to do in the city, but the king summoned me and I did not wish to return before visiting you. I am sure you are very well cared for; but is there anything you would like?" he said.

"No, I don't think so," said Pippin, "except …" He paused as a thought struck him. "Could you take me outside for a little? I can't really walk, yet, you see, and the sunshine looks very inviting."

"Maybe. What are your injuries? Have you broken anything?" asked Faramir.

"I don't think so. I think I mostly got squashed. There was a troll trying to kill Beregond, and I attacked it; but it fell on me," he said.

"Small but doughty," said Faramir. "I will check with the leeches."

He returned a moment later carrying a thick fur blanket.  
"They will release you for a little, so let us go. This should keep you warm," he said. He spread the blanket on the ground by Pippin's cot and pulled back the bedclothes.  
"Now, tell me if I hurt you," he said. He lifted Pippin carefully, laid him on the blanket and wrapped it securely round him; then he lifted him into his arms to lie against his shoulder. "Are you comfortable?" he said.

"Very," answered Pippin. Faramir carried him out of the tent and looked round. The flat field was filled with tents of all colours, but little could be seen beyond them. He looked east. Behind them the ground rose in wooded slopes up to a high ridge.

"Shall I take you up through the woods to a clearing I know? The city can be seen from there and I would like to show you the view. It is not too far," he said. Pippin smiled.

"Yes please," he said.

There were no guards visible as Faramir started to climb. After a while he stopped, and to Pippin's surprise, whistled; sounding very much like a bird, but not one whose call Pippin knew.

"I am not sure who is on duty," he said. To Pippin's astonishment a bush near them moved suddenly. There was a rustle, and a hooded, green-masked man stood in front of them, with spear in hand and a sword at his belt. He saluted and smiled broadly at Faramir.

"Good day, Captain! It is good to see you again!" he said.

"And you also, Túrin. I did not see anyone, so I thought it must be the turn of the rangers to be on duty. How far up is the outer ring? I am bearing a precious burden, and I do not wish to take him out beyond the guards," said Faramir. The ranger bowed to Pippin.

"Greetings, Master Perian," he said. He answered Faramir, bade them farewell and then vanished as Faramir, satisfied, continued onwards with Pippin.

"Who was he?" asked Pippin. Faramir smiled.

"One of the rangers of Ithilien. For the last a hundred years or so we have not been able to hold Ithilien; and so we have had men who fight here in secret, tasked to strive against the enemy as and when we can. They are very valiant, quite dauntless, and very good company in the evenings, but no Ithilien ranger allows you to see him unless he wishes it. I was with them on the day I met Frodo and Samwise."

"And why did you whistle?"

"We communicate with bird-calls. That one meant: 'Friend: show yourself'," said Faramir.

"I wish I could do that," said Pippin wistfully. Faramir laughed.

"Well, I won't teach you here or we would cause great alarms. When you are back in the city, far away from Ithilien, I will show you then, if you wish. It is not only a skill for war; it is very useful when hunting, and Boromir and I used to speak that way when we went to watch birds as boys. It was serious training, for if you can move close to birds without startling them then it is unlikely that you will be seen by orcs, but I used to love watching the birds, seeing their bright feathers, counting their chicks and watching them as they grew," he said fondly.

They came to a clearing in the wood and Faramir bore Pippin to the upper edge where the view was clear over the tops of the trees below. He went to a smooth grassy bank and sat facing west, setting Pippin in his lap as if he were sitting in a chair, still wrapped in the blanket, looking out towards the river with his head against Faramir's breast.

"Now, are you comfortable?" asked Faramir.

"Yes, thank you," said Pippin.

"Then look out over Gondor!" said Faramir. The view stretched away to the west fading into haze over fertile plains which went on towards Rohan; then to the left were the gleaming peaks of the White Mountains with Mindolluin at their eastern end and Minas Tirith at its foot, towers shining in the sun. Further south still the river wound away through green lands towards the sea.

"It is even more beautiful than Boromir said," said Pippin.

"Boromir loved this view," said Faramir.

"I wish he were here with us," sighed Pippin. _Yet I do not,_ thought Faramir sadly. He had thought of telling Pippin what Boromir had done, but decided not to; he did not want to disturb Pippin's peace while he was still recovering from his wounds.

"Boromir died well, and sleeps in peace. That must be our comfort," he said.

They sat in silence together for a long time, looking out over the valley. Faramir was the first to move. He reached into a pouch he was carrying at his waist and pulled out two leather bottles of beer and a cloth-wrapped package which he opened to reveal two sweet buns. Pippin's eyes grew round as saucers.

"Would you like some elevenses?" asked Faramir gravely.

"Yes please! How did you know I like these so much?" said Pippin.

"I did not know it; but I thought they would be suitable," said Faramir.

Afterwards they sat more time in the warm sun, and Pippin began to nod.  
"I think we should return," said Faramir. "You are growing weary and I do not wish to overtax your strength."  
He hoisted Pippin back into his arms and started down the hill back to the camp.

In the late morning Beregond was called by a messenger who would say only:  
"Follow me, please," He was led through the camp towards the king's tent, with his banner flying over it. As they came closer Beregond started to turn slightly pale.

"Am I summoned before the king?" he asked.

"Nay," said the messenger, but gave no further information.

Just outside the king's tent, in shade under a tree, sat Faramir in a tall-backed, carved wooden chair. There was a lower chair, empty, sitting near him almost facing his. The messenger brought Beregond to Faramir, bowed and withdrew.  
Faramir smiled warmly at Beregond as he saluted.

"Good day, Beregond. I am sorry for the secrecy; my visit here is not generally known. I am very pleased to see you alive and well after all the trials of the last few weeks," he said.

"Thank you, my lord," said Beregond. He permitted himself to relax a little and smiled back at Faramir. "It's not something I would like to repeat any time soon, lord."

Faramir's smile broadened even further. "I do not suppose that we will ever have to do anything like it ever again; and that gives us great cause for rejoicing. Will you sit by me?" he said indicating the chair at his side. Beregond sat obediently.  
"Many things have taken place over the last few weeks," continued Faramir gravely, "and I was not aware of all of them at the time. But Mithrandir has told me now of the manner of my father's death, and of why it was that I woke with a guard of the citadel at my side as my servant.  
"A more devoted servant I could not have had. I owe you my life, and I thank you for it with all my heart. I will endeavour to be a steward worthy of the love you have shown me."

"Any man who has served under you would gladly place your life far above his own, lord," said Beregond.

"Of that I am not so sure," said Faramir, "and I hope that the situation will not arise where your words need be put to the test. But however that may be, you acted with selfless valour which has saved my life; and you have my unending gratitude." He bowed.  
"But it seems that you have no peace your heart," he added.

"I survey what I have done, lord, and I tremble," said Beregond. "I have broken my oath." Faramir said nothing, looking at Beregond with keen eyes. Then Beregond went on:

"I told myself that it was my duty to protect my lords from any threat, not only to protect the citadel, but it was merely an excuse. In truth, I could not stand by knowing that you were to be slain. But if my oath means that my duty is to stand and do naught to save my Captain from being put to death in fire, then I will break it, for I did not swear for that! Better forsworn than … that!" He shuddered.  
"Yet now I am an oath-breaker; and not even death will release me," he said. "I left my post without leave; I have desecrated the Hallows; I have raised my blade against my liege lord whom I swore to protect; and I have slain his faithful servants, loyal men of Gondor who lie now dead at my hand.  
"And never have I heard of any man in whom the breaking of an oath was excused or forgiven, whatever the cause; and I must await the vengeance that will be taken upon me. I forgot it when I was serving you and also when we marched against Mordor; for my mind was filled with other matters, but now I have little else to do but to ponder it. Yet I set my course when I left my post; and naught will change it now." Beregond bowed his head in shame.  
"Forgive me, lord," he whispered, "I am afraid. I do not want to die accursed."

"Do you repent of your deeds?" asked Faramir, his face betraying nothing of his thoughts. Beregond held up his head proudly now: bold, resolute and desolate.

"I rue the deaths of those I slew; but I will not repudiate my deeds," he said, "for had I not committed them, you would not now be numbered among the living. When I left my post I did so knowing that I might forfeit my life, in the hope that I might manage to save you from death in the fire. I did so willingly; and I have my reward: you live and are well and strong. Even if it were possible, I would not take back that which I offered; and if your life were again at risk I would do it again, my lord, at any cost," said Beregond.  
"Yet for all that, the time awaiting my doom weighs heavily on me; and I would have it over, for good or for ill.  
"May I know when I will be judged, lord?"

"That I know not; although it will be after the coronation, for the king will judge you," said Faramir. "I will not pre-empt his judgement; but I will say to you: trust the king. We would none of us be here without him and he will do what is right.  
"When Amandil Lord of Andunïe sailed west to plead for mercy of the Valar, he broke the ban, expecting that he would suffer the penalty for so doing. He never returned; yet perhaps his plea was heard and it is for that reason that a remnant of Númenor was saved. He said before he sailed that there was but one loyalty from which a man could never be absolved in his heart; and to that loyalty you too have stayed true. I do not think you will suffer penalty for your deeds beyond the grave; nor indeed in this life."

"Of your mercy, lord, would you permit me to return to the city?" asked Beregond.

"You do not wish to stay here and rejoice with the king's host?" said Faramir.

"In truth, lord, I want to go home to my wife and my children. I find it difficult to lay aside my cares; I would rather return to my family, in the city ruled by the lord I love," he said.

"I see," said Faramir. He paused for a moment in thought.  
"The servant of the steward's chamber was left a pension in the lord Denethor's will; and no replacement has yet been made," he said. "You cannot re-join the guard of the citadel before you are judged, but if my life were unsafe in your hands I would already be dead. Would you come with me back to the city and serve me as servant of the steward's chamber?" Beregond's face broke into smiles of relief and delight.

"I would with all my heart!" he said. "Thank you, my lord!"

"I will speak to the king," said Faramir.

When Beregond returned to his company he did not bother to hide his smiles as he started to put together his kit.

"What's happening, Captain?" asked one of the men.

"The Lord Faramir has come; he is taking me back to the city and I am to be the servant of his chamber until I am judged," he answered joyfully. "Artamir will command this company for the present, I expect," he added.  
Swiftly he finished his packing and made his farewells. The soldiers looked at one another as he departed. One of them shook his head.

"Some people get all the luck," he said.


	20. The dawn of new days

Faramir and Beregond left Cormallen together shortly after nuncheon. They travelled to Cair Andros that day and then slept there, before returning to the city by boat; as Faramir was instructed to take the journey back to the city rather more gently than he had on the way out, but he suffered no ill effects from it.

Some days later the Warden of the Houses of Healing came to see Faramir, and asked to speak with him privately. Faramir permitted them to be alone, and then said:  
"I trust that all is well in the Houses of Healing?" he asked.

"In general, yes, although there are a few patients who still give me cause for concern," he said. "But I have come to you about one specific matter." He hesitated.

"Lord Faramir, may I ask you an impertinent question?" he said. Faramir's face was unreadable; and the Warden thought of Denethor: ready to allow a liberty if it might be to his advantage, but reserving his thoughts entirely to himself.

"You may ask; but I do not say that I shall answer it," said Faramir; and the warden returned to his question.

"Then, lord: do you wish to wed with the Lady Éowyn of Rohan?" asked the Warden. Faramir looked at him gravely, revealing nothing.

"I have no reason to believe that the Lady Éowyn of Rohan wishes to wed with me; so the question does not arise," he replied.

"But if she did?" pressed the Warden. Suddenly Faramir smiled.

"If she did," he said, "then I would plight my troth tomorrow, given the chance."

"Then, lord, I should tell you that I think she might. The Lady Éowyn is growing paler as time passes, and she seems lonely; and sad despite all that has happened. I think she misses your company. We leeches, as you call us, know of the healing of hearts as well as of bodies, and it has seemed to me that while your bodies have been healing themselves, when you both stayed in the Houses, your hearts were being healed each by the other," said the healer.

"That may be so, but perhaps such healing as her heart can receive from me is past. Of late she has not always seemed very keen that I should visit her," said Faramir, "and I have not been able to read her heart clearly."

"I think the armour that she has needed to keep her heart from breaking is now preventing her from showing it clearly even to herself, so it seems to me no wonder that you cannot see it. But it is to be near you, I deem, that she goes not to Cormallen, to rejoice with her brother and the host. Would you visit her again, lord?" asked the Warden. Faramir sat in thought for a moment.

"I will visit her," he said finally, "but I do not say what will come of it." The Warden bowed.

"Then I ask your leave to return to my work. May you fare well, lord," he said.

* * *

"Time for a break, lads!" called the sergeant. A barrel had been brought to where the working party was labouring in the first circle. Hallas laid down his pick and straightened his back with a sigh, grateful for the relief. He collected his drink, sat on a low wall beside them and sipped the beer appreciatively, leaning back and looking idly at his surroundings then up to the higher levels of the city. Suddenly he choked and sat forward with a jerk, his eyes fixed on the upper walls.

"Hey! Watch it! You nearly made me spill my beer!" protested the man next to him, moving his mug protectively towards him. Hallas paid no attention. A smile spread across his face.

"Look up there!" he said, gesturing with the hand that was not holding the beer mug. The men round him followed his gaze. One gave a low whistle of amazement.

"He didn't waste any time, did he? She's only been here a month," he said. Chuckles spread through the group.

"Perhaps being locked up in the Houses of Healing for three weeks has its advantages," said another.

"Well, I've been wounded twice and no-one has wanted to marry me yet!" said another.

"Perhaps you just have to try harder," said another unsympathetically.

"Well if that's what they look like it's a pity only one of the women of Rohan came to Gondor," said another. "Do you think any more will come now that we've won, just to celebrate the victory?" he added wistfully.

"They wouldn't look at you, even if they did!" said another.

"They might," he replied with an injured air. "I wouldn't make such a bad husband."

"Well, he's a lucky man even if he is Lord Steward of Gondor," said another with a chuckle, still looking up at Faramir.  
The sergeant came over and looked up to the walls of the Houses of Healing to see what had caught their attention and gasped, suppressing a grin of delight. He cast a disapproving look towards a man who had just whistled suggestively. The man coughed and bowed.

"I mean to offer my most heartfelt good wishes to the lord steward and his lady bride on the occasion of their betrothal," he said.

"That's better," said the sergeant.

"But come on, sergeant," said the man. "If he were troubled by us all seeing he wouldn't kiss her on the walls of the sixth circle, would he?"

* * *

Faramir sat back in his chair and stretched his arms over his head; but his movement was suddenly checked by a twinge of pain and he grimaced at his carelessness. _If you keep pulling it open that wound will never heal,_ he thought wryly. He sighed and stretched his legs instead; then got up, easing his shoulders as he walked round the room past the desk he had just left. He was stiff and weary and had not moved for hours, it felt. The words were beginning to blur before his eyes and he knew it was time to stop. He strode from the room into the still bright sunshine and wandered on the walls breathing deeply of the clean air.

It had been a long day, but a satisfying one. The farmers of the Pelennor had come to retrieve their seed-corn and tools from the vaults where they had been stored before the attack. They had benefitted from unexpected extra labour, for outside the city there was the large camp of the Rohirrim who had decided that they would prefer to camp outside the city in their own fashion near their horses than leave them to stay in the city, although their wounded were in the Houses of Healing. Once they had rested for a few days after destroying the army of Mordor in Anórien, Elfhelm the Marshal had decided that idleness would breed trouble; and after consulting with the steward they had continued their work restoring the battlefield, spending their days repairing the damage to the Pelennor fields, filling in trenches and holes made by the enemy, burning siege engines and gear of war, and restoring the land within the Rammas Echor so that it could be sown. Their allies aided them now through no bond but love, already discharging their oaths fully and with great honour with their blood. Naught more could be asked, yet it was offered; and Faramir and all the men of Minas Tirith who saw were profoundly grateful. With this help, it was likely that most of the ruined land would be restored in time to be sown that year.

He had considered also the problem of the families whose menfolk had been killed. In some cases they had lost two or even three generations and those left could not hope to work their land alone. But the weregild would enable them to pay labourers; and he would give money to re-build dwellings; and there were plenty of soon-to-be former soldiers who would happily work the land for wages. He hoped also that it would ease the transition back to normal life for scarred soldiers, especially those without homes to return to.

_Yet it is not normal life, _he thought. _It is life as we have never known it for centuries, free from fear of the nameless. Have we ever had such joy since the bliss of Númenor was lost? The men now babes in the wombs of women will hear of, but never know, the threat which has overshadowed all our lives since before we lost the king; and he is returned that our joy may be complete._

He had now done what he could, he felt, to secure their food supplies for the following year. The fruit trees would take longer to restore, but in other parts of Gondor there was less damage. He thought he might perhaps offer the chance to pay taxes in saplings for the next few years which would provide them with much needed replacements; and please farmers who often found it easier to raise payment in kind than in coin. The weather had been clement; and he had risked sending cattle as well as sheep to graze on the lower slopes of Mindolluin and also into Anórien, until the grassland of the Pelennor should recover. Some families would follow their flocks, but he had encouraged families to join with their neighbours to share the work of herding and sowing duties so that neither would be neglected.

The sun was setting in the west; and soon the bells indicating the hour for the daymeal would sound. He made his way to his dining room. The meal was brought to him and he smiled as he ladled soup into his plate. _Potato and onion. Boromir's favourite, _he thought, and then he could see him sitting opposite him, smiling and animated as he expounded an idea that had just struck him. It was a shock to open his eyes again and realise that he sat in his father's place, but then another memory struck him; this time of his father, not smiling – that was a rare occurrence, but listening with keen attention to the good-natured argument between his sons as they debated the point. _What was it about? _he wondered; and found he could not remember; but their faces were clear in his mind, and he found that was what mattered.

_Should I draw them as I can see them now? _he wondered for a moment. _Yes._ _I will try,_ he decided; and after the meal went to one of the smaller chambers and drew out paper and pencils. The scene flowed from his pencil as he saw it in his mind; and he worked ever faster filling in more details as the drawing took shape beneath his hand.

When he had finished he looked at his work; and he smiled. _It does not really do them justice; _he thought,_ but it is quite good. It is enough. With this, even though time pass, I do not think my memory will fade. _Then a few quiet tears came; but they were nearer tears of joy than tears of sorrow. He drank another glass of dark wine, looking at his picture, and took one of his father's favourite white cakes from a plate which had been left at his elbow. When he had finished it, he rose, intending to return to his desk; but the drawing suddenly seemed very precious and first he took it to his bedchamber and found a place for its safe-keeping.

When he returned to his study he turned to the casualty lists which had been brought to him some days earlier. To the family of every man of Gondor killed he wrote a letter to be sent after the weregild. He could not hope to visit them; there were thousands and his letters, written on fine paper with printed decoration, were brief; yet however arduous, he wished to give each family the honour of thanks and sorrow expressed in the steward's hand. He tried to write them at a rate of four dozen each night, although he did not always manage to achieve his aim for he wrote longer letters for the men who had died under his command since the one letter served for both commander's and steward's missive. His secretaries would address and send the letters in the morning; and would be doing so for many weeks to come if he managed to continue with the three hours each night that he tried to dedicate to it.

He was up again before dawn and went first to the Houses of Healing for the re-dressing of his wound. Afterwards he went to Éowyn and they took breakfast together. For half an hour he gave himself no duties but rejoiced in her company, then he went away; usually not seeing her again until the next day. Their early morning meetings seemed to him like pools of peace. For a brief while all cares were eclipsed; and the memory of it sustained him throughout the day. He could not remember ever being so busy, but it was different busyness; a joyous busyness; a busyness of mending, healing, creating, nurturing the good; never destruction, not even destruction of evil. That was necessary, but never pleasant; but it seemed to him that this new life could bring him fulfilment as never before.

He started also to think about the clothes needed for the coronation. He would wear white, the colour of his house and colour of joy. They had all worn white on the most solemn occasions, and he now had three sets of white. He would wear his father's – they had been very little used, worn only on occasions when Denethor's dress was dictated by custom, and then for as brief a period as possible. He was not sure how old they were, but he did not think they had been made new for Denethor. But there were no signs of moth in either the fur or the wool, and they were entirely unmarked, so there was no reason to expend time or money in replacing them; or in modifying his own to fulfil the requirements of the garb of the steward. His uncle would look after himself, as would some of the other lords of Gondor, but Faramir needed to provide suitably fine clothes for the king, and those of Gondor who needed to dress well but were unlikely to have the money to have rich clothing sent from far-flung homes, and also for the lords of Rohan. He would ask Éowyn; although he thought that unlike in Gondor, in Rohan a warrior's finest clothes were those he wore into battle, so he hoped that most would have brought with them the finery they would choose to wear to the coronation in any case.

Tailors, seamstresses and great store of cloth of both wool and linen had been sent to Cormallen. His own best white cloak he sent to Aragorn. Such fine wool was in short supply, and the clasp was of mithril; so if it met with the king's approval it would do well for the coronation, although the king might want the clasp removed unless the elessar could go over it.

The question of clothes made him turn next to Boromir's chambers. They were austere to the point of being bare. There was a shelf of books – of the major campaigns and battles of Gondor's history, and more general ones; _Tactics favoured by the Men of Near-Harad_;_ Strategies of War when Out-numbered_; _The Hard-pressed Captain; Techniques of Swordplay in Umbar_; _Gaining Victory over Orcs; Provisioning an Army in winter; _and others in similar vein, but all on the same theme. The desk contained an ink horn, pens, sealing-wax and stacks of paper, but little else apart from Boromir's seal. He had written little except on official business and Faramir now realised that he had cleared away much before leaving for the north. _Never leave to chance what can be simplified by planning, _he thought, remembering one of Boromir's sayings; though it seemed poignant that his own tasks were now being eased by Boromir's forward planning for any eventuality. _I suppose he lived like that for years. For Boromir, life was never safe; and it was not safety that mattered to him, at least not his own,_ he thought. He found now that he could smile at the recollection. There was still pain; he could not imagine that ever leaving him; but his memories could now bring quiet joy that was not always and immediately swallowed by grief. There was a vase which had belonged to their mother, and a small table with a chequered design of mother-of-pearl and dark lebethron inlaid on the surface and drawers around the sides holding chess-men and other gaming pieces and boards which would fit over the top to play ludo, draughts and other games which Boromir had enjoyed when he sought rest and recreation. The table in fact was Faramir's but they usually played in Boromir's rooms; and after some years of carrying it back and forth, while Faramir's smaller rooms had become more and more full of papers, books and musical instruments, Boromir had suggested that it should live in his rooms and Faramir had happily acquiesced.

On the walls were trophies of war; particularly fine weapons or pieces of armour from his vanquished foes. A few chairs and a table completed the furnishing, apart from a stand for armour and weapons. In his bed-chamber was a bed, a wash-stand and a wardrobe.

Faramir had wondered what to do with his brother's clothes. To see them worn by another was more than he thought it wise to try to endure just yet; yet he had to provide fine clothes for many and the garments were in good condition and ought not to be thrown away. The solution came to him suddenly. He would keep most of Boromir's clothes, and send away his own. They were little worn, for his usual attire had been his uniform and rarely had he the chance to wear other things. To his he had no particular attachment; they were just clothes. He thought he would do something similar with his father's clothes, although Denethor's wardrobe had been very small apart from the ceremonial robes for various occasions which Faramir would need. He could not remember when he had last seen his father out of mourning except for those occasions when custom demanded it.

Faramir was not wearing mourning except occasionally. He had decided that his own darkness was not greater than the joy of the king's return; and the steward should not celebrate victory in mourning.

The books from Boromir's rooms went to the vaults of the libraries, and the trophies to the treasury, along with the seal to be guarded carefully until there was another heir to the stewardship to use it. There was also the wooden sword, Boromir's first; and that Faramir kept with a few other things including his brother's cloven horn which he still could not look on without feeling tears building up behind his eyes. Their mother's vase went to one of the rooms where he would sit of an evening and the games table also.

Once all was done he sat still for a while then wandered through the de-personalised rooms before the furniture was shrouded in dust-sheets. _You are not here, my brother, are you? _he thought. _I cannot find you in things; nor in places; not anymore. Your body has gone, down towards the sea, and you, you are gone beyond the circles of this world. One day I hope I will join you in peace, Boromir, but not yet. I have much I want to do, I now find, before I die.  
_

Next came his old room. It was fuller, but much more straight-forward. The books in their bookcases he would move to the same room as his mother's vase; and his instruments to the steward's music room along with his music. He thought about where to put the papers relating to his study of pre-exilic Númenorean architecture, and decided, since he currently had a lot of space in apartments designed to hold the steward, his wife and a large family, to give an entire room to it. He would then have a study for work and another for pleasure; but this would eliminate the temptation to fall into one when his attention should be given to the other. He did not want ever to find himself in the position of chairing a meeting of the Council convened to discuss fiscal affairs and find that the papers to hand were on the earliest decoration of the civic buildings of Pelargir.  
In his clothes he had little interest except in so far as they could solve his problems of providing suitable dress for the lords at Cormallen. He kept back a belt made of tooled white leather and semi-precious stones set in gold which had been a birthday present from Boromir some years earlier, but everything else he ordered to be packed and taken to another chamber where he could sort it later.

He knew a little of the dress of the Rohirrim but had limited knowledge of the details. He did not wish to insult them suggesting by what he provided that it would be better if they dressed after the fashion of Gondor. He made his way to the Houses of Healing to seek out the White Lady; his White Lady, he thought with pleasure. He knocked on her door and found her alone, carefully copying letters from a child's copybook.

"If I am to be a healer after the fashion of Gondor, I must be able to read your books," she said. "Listen!" she added with enthusiasm, drawing a volume to her.

"The … heart … is … a … muscular … pump … which … moves … blood … through … the … arteries … of … the … body," she read proudly. Faramir smiled.

"Your make rapid progress, my lady," he said. "Yet I wonder if you might wish to take refreshment in the garden, if I may draw you away from your studies a while? The sun is bright, and also there is a matter on which I would have your counsel." Éowyn smiled and rose.

"Would you pass my mantle?" she asked, indicating a cloak hanging near him. The she coloured slightly. "Your mother's mantle," she corrected. Faramir brought the garment and draped it round her, then fastened the clasp at her throat.

"Your mantle," he said, and kissed her brow. Then he took her hand and kissed that also. He had not repeated the kiss with which they had sealed their betrothal. There were certain lines it was not wise to cross, and he thought that if he were to do it again he would feel very inclined to proceed to an elven wedding; but he had given enough scandal already, he deemed. He could not bring himself to regret the kiss, but he did now think that he could have chosen a better place or time for it. He had certainly, he thought, shattered any illusions anyone in the city might have held about the steward's restraint; and suspected, ruefully, that deed would probably go down in the annals of the history of the city, perhaps with more prominence than anything else he did in the rest of his life. He was not quite sure whether he had the same effect on her as she had on him, although he hoped he did, or at least would have in the future.

Never before had he really considered marriage. It had been understood that Boromir would wed first, and he had resisted all attempts to 'bind him in chains' as he had phrased it. He had never really grown out of the 'girls are sissy' stage, Faramir thought, and had no interest in being tied down to family life, or having someone at home who would fret about him and limit him; and he had said that he had no time to be married – perhaps it could be later, when they were not so hard-pressed. Denethor had pointed out the necessity of an heir, but Boromir had countered with the suggestion that since he had not met anyone he wished to marry until he was forty-six, it was unreasonable to suggest that Boromir, at under forty, should marry immediately, and in any case if the worst came to the worst there was always Faramir, whereas Denethor had no younger brother. There had been few things in which Boromir had opposed his father, and Denethor had found the arguments unanswerable and not been prepared to insist, although he had made his wishes clear. For Faramir the idea of marriage had been more appealing, but he could not consider it before Boromir was wed, and his duties had been heavy enough that it had been many years since he had the time to know any woman who was not either kin or servant as anything beyond the most superficial acquaintance. He had never allowed himself to go very far down such paths even in day-dreams, since he had known that any announcement on his part of any desire to marry would have made life yet more difficult for Boromir and displeased his father still further.

Meeting Éowyn had been a shock, albeit a pleasant one. Her beauty he had found breath-taking and her company delightful. Pity for her sorrow had very soon become love such as he had never before known it in all his life. It had seemed a cruel irony that as they and all Gondor stared into the abyss, his heart should suddenly lead him to desire life as never before. As soon as he had reached the age where realism had replaced dreams, he had known that Gondor was doomed; although he would fight to delay its destruction even beyond hope. He had long ago accepted that death in battle was the most likely end that awaited him and he had been resigned to it; yet just as it had seemed most likely that all the world would be swept away before the power of the dark lord, he had suddenly come to wish with all his heart that the joy that had risen in his heart would endure, that his love would endure and his life endure, while the delight of her company had been so all-pervading that he had been unable to bring his heart to believe that darkness would overcome it. Then the Ring had been destroyed; the dark lord had fallen; and there was new life, new hope; and the White Lady of Rohan had consented to wed with him. He had laughed for joy when she had accepted him; and now every time he thought of her or saw her, the same feeling rose up in his heart.  
"Shall we go into the garden?" he asked.

He carried a basket, in which were wine and almond pastries. They sat together on the grass under the tree, and he spread a cloth before them and laid out the pastries and two cups. Once he had filled them both he started to speak.  
"The problem I now bring to you will seem small, I doubt not, yet I would have your advice. I must send clothes to Cormallen for the lords of Rohan to wear for the coronation and also that they should be dressed fittingly as they rejoice in victory, but I am unsure what might be needed. I imagine they will wish to dress after their own fashion, but I cannot advise the tailors of Gondor for I do not know myself," he said.

"It will not be difficult," said Éowyn, laying down her glass and picking up the pastry. "The pattern for cloaks can be copied from those that men have now, I expect – everyone wears the same shape; and our men bind pieces of goat-skin or woollen cloth round their legs for protection and warmth, but the shaping of those is easy. I do not imagine hoods will be needed; they are worn only when it is cold but springtime is now upon us and we are in Gondor not in the Mark. Our tunics are quite similar in pattern to those of the men of Gondor, save that they are never longer than the knee. They are of no fixed colour, but the braiding on them is very important. It tells rank and family, and each family has its own pattern. The women of each household make it."

"Are the patterns widely known outside each family?" asked Faramir.

"Oh yes. There are only about three score. I know them all. Everyone recognises them, and most women can make any of them, for once you know the basic weaves and colours, the variations are not complicated. All use the same five colours. But each tunic needs two or three ells of braid," said Éowyn.

"I do not wish to take you away from your studies for long, but if I were to send women to you, skilled in working with thread, would you show them how to make it?" asked Faramir hesitantly.

"Gladly," said Éowyn. "For whom do you need braid?"

"Firstly your brother, but there many others besides," said Faramir.

"Then if you tell me the names, I will know each pattern. And the braid for each tunic will be a day's work to make."

"Thank you kindly, my lady," said Faramir with a bow.

"Now I must return to my books, and you to your work, I expect," said Éowyn. Faramir sighed.

"They will clamour for me, I fear, if I am away for long, but I would I had much longer to be at your side. Will you do me the honour of meeting me for breakfast again tomorrow?" he asked. Éowyn smiled and rose.

"I would like that," she said. "Until tomorrow, my lord." They clasped hands and kissed lightly on the lips, then each went their way and they returned to their work.

* * *

Several days later Lord Húrin came to see Faramir. He was a tall, powerful man with greying hair; and his twin passions in life were the army and boats. He had been relieved to hand command of the city to Faramir when he had been released from the Houses of Healing; while Faramir had been happy to leave the command of the affairs of the soldiers stationed in the city to Húrin, since the city was more than enough to keep him occupied. Húrin had done less in the city in three weeks than his uncle had done in three days and it seemed that seeing the scale of the work needed had been beyond him. Nonetheless he was doggedly loyal and very brave, however limited in his vision, and for his primary office of Keeper of the Keys of the City he was admirably suited. Faramir trusted him without reservation. He was loved and respected as a commander, and he dealt very competently with the small details of army life which were so important to keep the men well and happy.

However, it was of his other passion that Húrin wished to speak. His face was wreathed in smiles.  
"Lord Faramir, I was down just south of the Harlond this morning, and it seems that they left the boats alone! The compound is quite undamaged and the boats have not been touched," he said. "Shall I start planning the June races?" His face was eager and excited and Faramir smiled.

"Yes, do so. Yet not all who should be there will be present. I have no idea how many complete crews we have left. We will have to see what happens as the entries come in," he said. Húrin's face suddenly fell.

"Will you race, lord?" he asked. Faramir considered it for a little.

"If _The Swallow_ is undamaged, then I think so, if I can find someone to crew for me. But I do not say yet that I shall. But if I do not, then I shall watch from the shore if I can," he said. Húrin grinned.

"Do you think you would manage that, lord?" he asked. Faramir laughed.

"May be you are right. In any case, we shall see." Húrin bowed and took his leave.

_The Swallow_ was Faramir's boat. Sailing was for him a source of unending pleasure which calmed his mind and soothed his spirit; although of late, like everything else, it had been greatly disrupted. He had been going out alone on the river since boyhood. Boromir had smiled at Faramir's enthusiasm and indulged it although his heart had never been in it. For him there had been only one thing to take seriously. But he would crew for Faramir for the races, or when the strength of the wind meant that both of them were needed for the boat to be able to go out.

Faramir leaned back in his chair and smiled. An image of Boromir came into his mind, laughing with spray-damped hair as he swung back inboard for Faramir to change tack, before climbing out again to counterbalance the press of the sails, enjoying the opportunity to display his strength and prowess, hanging all his weight on the trapeze.

How well they had done in the races had depended greatly on the wind. For strategy and tactics Faramir had no equal; but in light winds the pair of them made such a heavy crew that it always set them at considerable disadvantage.  
The June races, held on the large expanse of flat and relatively still water immediately below the Harlond, were a highlight of the year in Minas Tirith. There was fair and a holiday; and large crowds came to watch the boats. The previous year the races had been cancelled, falling so soon after their defeat at Osgiliath and while Boromir was preparing to depart for the north. It had no longer been certain that the river would be safe; and all feared that war might fall on them at any moment. Denethor had not thought it wise to have the flower of Gondor and both of his sons together on the river, even for an afternoon at a time. The fair had gone ahead as usual, for its cancellation would cause hardship and disrupt commerce and trade, but the atmosphere had been subdued and the holiday no joy to the very many in mourning.

It had not always been Boromir who had crewed for him. Occasionally, if Boromir had been away, Denethor would agree to take his place; and when sailing was the only time Faramir could ever remember seeing his father without his mail. He had also seen his father smile more often in a boat than anywhere else; and sometimes even some of the lines of care in his face had seemed to fade, as if blown away by the wind.

Yet who would crew for him now? His Dol Amroth cousins had their own boats and his uncle sailed a boat crewed, improbably, by his groom. An idea suddenly occurred to him, and he reached for pen and paper.

* * *

Aragorn looked at the package of letters from Minas Tirith in surprise. As well as Faramir's weekly dispatch, and various official matters that the steward had sent him, there was another thin missive from the steward, sealed under separate cover. He opened that one first.

_To Aragorn, Lord Elessar, King, from Faramir, son of Denethor, greetings._

_My lord King,_

_I write now on a personal matter.  
There is no matter in which I may command my king, yet if it appeals to his fancy, I beg his consideration of that which I now lay before him.  
At present Lord Húrin of the Keys is organising the June boat races. Often I have raced with my father or my brother crewing a boat which I helm; and I have just heard that my boat has survived the war undamaged. If when June comes both king and steward are in Minas Tirith and no other duties call us, would you consider sailing with me in the Minas Tirith Boat Races?_

_Faramir_

* * *

Faramir, too, had a brief personal note when the next packet of letters and official correspondence came from Cormallen.

_To Faramir, son of Denethor, Steward of Gondor from Aragorn, son of Arathorn, Lord Elessar, greetings._

_Faramir,_

_On occasion Thorongil raced with your father in _The Curlew_, many years ago. It will give me great pleasure to race now with his son in _The Swallow. _I look forward to seeing her and training with you after I come to Minas Tirith._

_Aragorn_

* * *

Then the day came when Faramir could see from the walls of the citadel in the far distance east near Osgiliath a great camp being set up for the night. The next day while the great column came closer Faramir went through his arrangements for everything: guards, ceremony, crowd control, banquet, garlands, citadel, king's apartments, throne room, schedules of names of those to be brought before the king, marshals to guide them, awards for valour, cases to be judged, food for the populace and the army, sites for encampments, grazing for the horses of the Rohirrim and of Dol Amroth, down to every last detail. He had asked for volunteers to do guard duty on the day of the coronation; and every man of every company had volunteered. He had therefore doubled, tripled and quadrupled the guard and made unusually brief duties, that every man should see the king and be able to tell his grandchildren that he had done duty on the day of the coronation of the King Elessar.

The banquet would include everyone who wished without exception. Five hundred would eat in the Merethrond, the Great Hall of Feasts, but he had managed to procure herds of swine and once the king entered the citadel, in the fields outside the city would be meat and bread and wine for everyone in the city, and ice-cream. Many would never have tasted such rich food before, and he hoped that they would not run out of ice before the following winter as a result of his profligacy; but the ice-houses on the mountain and in the city were huge and deep, and stored several times as much ice as was used normally between one winter and the next. He felt it was a fitting mark of the king's return, and if it recalled the glory of Gondor at its height, and brought hopes of peace and plenty for the future under the king, then it would be suitable. And while trivial, he thought that the ice-cream would be memorable for all, even the smallest or those quite lost in the proceedings of the day.

By nuncheon he was satisfied that everything was arranged as well as could be done; and after he had eaten he went once more to Rath Dinen with a detachment of the guard. This time they carried a box of lebethron which he had commanded to be made. They passed the monuments to the great men of ancient times, passed the burned space where had been the House of the Stewards. The site was now cleared and washed clean, smooth and level, with few traces even of where Faramir had buried the box containing the remains of his father's body. He had pondered long over the question of whether to mark the grave. His father had intended nothing to remain; and Faramir wondered whether it was meet to mark his grave when he had done such violence to the bodies of all of his line. He had decided to leave it unmarked for the moment; but he knew where the grave was and could mark it in the future if he came to think that it would be better so.  
They passed on to the Houses of the Kings, to where the body of Earnil had slept embalmed for a thousand years. In his hands on his breast he held his crown where his son had left it on his ill-fated departure to Minas Morgul.  
Faramir bowed to the dead king.  
"On the morrow, my lord king," he said, "the heir of the line of Isildur and Anárion shall come to Minas Tirith. I beg leave to take the crown to give to him." Then he bowed again, and lifted the crown from the dead king's hands. It was a beautiful thing, of mithril and pearl set with gems of adamant which gleamed and shone even in the dim light within the house of the dead. He laid it in the box he had prepared for it, closed it and sealed it; then they bore it in procession to the Hall of the Kings where it would rest overnight under close guard.

The morning came. As he dressed for the ceremony, Faramir's heart was filled with joy. Twenty-six stewards before him had held the realm against this day. This day, when the waiting was over and Gondor would know the return of her king.

* * *

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